


John Grey and the Lost Stones

by iihappydaysii, MistressPandora



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Indiana Jones Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Back Together, Inspired by Indiana Jones, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nazis, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, University students have an unrequited crush on Professor Grey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/pseuds/iihappydaysii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: World renowned archaeologist, Dr. John Grey, faces his most dangerous adventure yet when his long-lost love, Jamie Fraser, asks for help finding his missing daughter.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey, Lord John Grey/Percy Wainwright, Lord John Grey/Stephan von Namtzen
Comments: 195
Kudos: 137
Collections: Outlander Bingo Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mood boards throughout created by [iihappydaysii](https://iihappydaysii.tumblr.com/)

**Peru - 1922.**

In most parts of the world, caverns are temperate, often cool places. This one was more oppressively hot than the sweltering jungle humidity outside. "I thought ye said the temple wouldnae be unguarded," Jamie Fraser said, wiping the back of one sweaty, grimy hand over an equally sweaty, grimy brow. "I dinna see anything dangerous."

“That’s what scares me.” John Grey took a solid step in front of Fraser and touched his wrist to turn him off any sudden movements. 

The Scot had a mind as sharp as any rapier and a body that barreled its way through obstacles and enemies like a cannonball. Regardless, Jamie Fraser remained naturally inclined toward recklessness. 

Despite its innocent appearance, this room would not be unguarded. Not when it held within it a treasure of such grave importance—that gold idol gleaming before them, even in this dark cavern, like the sun. No, there was something else here, even if it wasn’t immediately visible. 

Rough stones lined the path before them, thick and worn by age and moisture. Mud caked one of the stones near the toe of Grey’s boots in a too-perfect diamond shape. He grabbed a torch from the wall and knelt down for a closer inspection. Grey drew the base of the torch through the dirt to reveal a line cut through one of the pavers. He pounded the torch against the stone. 

An arrow zipped through the air and sank into the thick wood of the torch.

Protected. Just like John Grey thought. 

Jamie drew back in a sharp jerk. "Aye," he said, a little breathless from the adrenaline. "Aye. Ye were right. Ye always are." Jamie eyed the path between them and the idol, then flashed an infuriatingly charming grin at Grey. "Shall I follow ye? Or wait here and see where ye go wrong if ye get killed?"

Grey coud kiss that grin off Fraser right here, right now, in this sweltering cavern at the edge of the world. Somehow, he managed to hold himself back. There would be time enough for that later. “Stay,” he said. “There will be less of a chance to set off any of these traps if only one of us goes.”

Fraser eyed the arrow stuck fast in the torch pointedly. "Dinnae die, John. I'd rather not take yer mangled corpse home to yer brother, aye?"

“Thank you,” Grey said, forcing a smile. “How very comforting.” 

Trying not to think of his own mangled corpse— _thanks, Fraser—_ Grey turned his attention to the gauntlet of rigged stones laid out before him. He took a deep and steadying breath then stepped forward. He angled his boot in the solid spaces between the diamonds. If he missed, an arrow would stream from the mouth of one of the stone faces lining the walls. Grey rushed forward, careful of his steps. He leapt onto a mossy stone, careened over the steps and landed directly before the golden idol.

His chest tightened. Nearly a year of research, of hiking through jungles and sleeping on the dirt under the stars, just to finally make his way here, where he could reach out and hold the idol in his hands. Keep it safe from those who would wish to sell it off to the highest private bidder. 

Grey slipped his hand under his leather jacket to remove a burlap sack of sand. His research had indicated a trap such as this one and he’d come prepared. He eyed the idol, imagining it’s weight the best he could. The idol was slightly smaller than he expected. Grey removed a handful of the sand from the bag and scattered it onto the floor. 

"Christ, John, that didna look very scientific," Fraser's voice came behind him, the mossy rocks swallowing the echo.

Grey sent Jamie a look over his shoulder he hoped was as pointed as the arrow jutting out from the torch. 

Fraser laughed and blew John a kiss. "Relax. It'll be fine."

John held his breath to remain as steady as possible. He fingers grazed the warm gold as he slid the sack of sand in to replace the idol. The weight, timed just right, should stop the release of any possible traps. If he did it slowly and just right… just right… _there._ He grasped the idol in his hands and breathed again, smiling. 

The sound of rock sliding menacingly across rock came from the altar, and the bag of sand began to descend from view. "Ah, John? I'm nay sure that was supposed to happ—" the ceiling and walls of the chamber reverberated with a horrific boom. Stones and dust began raining from above, pounding into Grey, bouncing and skittering on the dusty floor. "Let's go!" Jamie shouted. "Dinna dawdle!"

The stones cascaded down around him. Grey had absolutely no intention of dawdling. He burst forward down the steps. An arrow zipped past him. _Shit._ He’d forgotten the traps. Another arrow shot from a mouth, then another and another. Ahead. Behind. Only pure dumb luck kept the projectiles from skewering Grey as he caught up to Jamie and latched onto his sleeve, yanking. “Run!” 

Jamie was already moving, shoulders hunched up around his head as falling rock pelted them. The rumbling grew louder, the whole cavern consumed by the cacophony of destruction. Dust hung thick in the humid air, choking them both. Just a couple corridors and they'd be outside.

The ground shook, more violent than any earthquake, and the stones beneath their feet began to give way. Jamie loosed a wicked curse and leapt as the floor collapsed, making it to the other side by virtue of his longer legs. The two men faced each other across an exceedingly unnecessary chasm and Jamie held out his left hand. "Toss yer whip," Jamie shouted. I'll help ye across."

Grey hated parting from his whip. He used it like an extension of his own body, but he trusted Jamie. Completely. Implicitly. He grabbed the whip and hurled it across the gap between them.

Jamie leaned over the precipice to catch the narrow end in his left hand. Rocks gave way under him, tumbling into the gap. He kept his footing though, and managed to wrap the leather around his hand without yanking Grey into the damn hole. "Jump, John. I willna let ye fall."

No time to think. John raced forward and hurled himself across the chasm. His boot caught the edge of rock and it crumbled away. He slipped, falling. His stomach dropped faster than the rest of his body. One hand gripped to the whip, waiting for the tension of Jamie holding it tight. The other hand still refused to release the idol.

With a grunt of effort, Jamie arrested John's fall. He stumbled forward, but recovered quickly and hauled John out of the chasm, hand over hand on the whip. He let out a frustrated, Scottish sort of grumble. "Jesus, have ye got more of those sand bags in your coat?" 

Grey forced himself to his feet. “Maybe you’re just losing your edge, Fraser.” 

"Aye, maybe. Go!" Jamie said, charging headlong toward a descending wall that most certainly wasn't there before. Fraser dropped to the ground, sliding under the wall like a baseball player.

John hurled himself to the floor in a far less graceful imitation of Jamie’s move. He pushed himself under the stone, the rough weight of it grazing his shoulder before he escaped to the other side. Grey launched to his feet as Jamie had already done. 

Sharp speartips bolted from the wall, aimed at Jamie’s back. Grey launched forward, gripping Jamie’s shirts and pulling the massive man out of the way with a brute force that only a terrified man in love could muster. 

Still gripping his shirt, Grey’s eyes were on Jamie’s, and then a deep crunch forced John’s attention over his shoulder. Above them an enormous boulder began to roll, picking up speed, heading straight towards them. Grey turned and bolted. 

”Ach shite!" Jamie snarled, hot on John's heels. They ran, stumbling and tripping over loose rocks, dragging each other bodily by the arm when one fell. The boulder closed in. The ground rumbled under its considerable weight, less than a foot from their fleeing backs. 

Jamie gripped the shoulders of Grey’s leather coat and hurled them both to one side. They crashed through a sticky mass of impossibly thick spider webs, tumbling to a rest in a mound of mud and foliage. They collapsed on each other, a tangled, nasty heap in the sodden ground, chests heaving from exertion.

Jamie made a disgusted noise and peeled globs of spider web off his face. "And did yer wee books warn ye about a rolling boulder the size of a studebaker?"

“No, but they didn’t warn me about cheeky damn Scots either and yet here we are.” Buzzed from the rush of running and escaping death trap after death trap, Grey wanted nothing more than to crush Fraser’s mouth in a kiss, taste him deeply, with the wet, floral scent of the jungle all around them.

He would have too. If it hadn’t been for the distinct click of a gun. Not just one click. Two. Three. At least ten guns aimed at them both. _God-fucking-dammit._

A body thudded face first on the ground, lifeless as stone. Angus. _Shit._ Boots stepped over the body and stomped toward them. The poison burn of hate rolled through Grey, from his face down to his belly. Frank-Fucking-Randall. Facist piece of shit.

Randall’s face twisted into a sneer and he bent down, getting in Grey’s face. “Dr. Grey, again we see there is nothing you can possess that I cannot take away.” 

Fraser glared from the corpse at their feet up to Randall. His blue eyes burned with berserker rage and his left hand reached for his pistol. He paused briefly when at least half the barrels trained directly on him, the other half on Grey. He growled low in his throat and thrust the handle of his own gun into Randall's waiting hand. "To the devil wi' ye, Randall," he spat.

"Quite," Randall said, taking the idol from Grey. He turned his back to Grey and Jamie and held the idol up to his men in victory.

Grey nudged Jamie’s arm and agreement passed silently and quickly between them. They leapt to their feet and, together, darted behind a boulder and into the shelter of the jungle. The crack of bullets demolished the quiet, mixing with the sound of Randall’s empty laughter.

They tore through the jungle, leaping over fallen legs, ducking branches and vines. Bark exploded from a tree less than a foot from Jamie's ear and he said something very bad in French. The river at last came into view, a small, beat-up seaplane floating off the far shore. The slender figure of Tom Byrd sat casually astride one of the pontoons, a fishing pole in his hands. He looked sharply up at the sound of distant gunfire, eyes scanning the treeline.

“Start the engine!” Grey shouted hoarsely as they barreled toward the plane. “Get it up! Tom, start the engine! Start the engine!”

Tom threw himself off the pontoon and climbed up the edge of his plane into the pilot’s seat. The propellers spun, chopping through the air. The plane skidded on top of the water, balanced on its pontoons. As bullets whizzed past him, Grey threw himself forward. He grasped a vine and swung, legs kicking. He dropped into the river.

Jamie plunged into the water with a splash next to Grey and they swam for the plane. Bullets peppered the water around them, zinging into the river with violent little splashes. They dragged themselves through the water, clumsy in their exhaustion. 

Randall's men shouted after them, the report of handgun fire drowned out by their thrashing strokes and the plane's engine. Jamie got his hand on the pontoon and dragged Grey up next to him. Jamie hesitated, clinging to the pontoon as the rickety plane picked up speed. "I. Hate. Flying," he said through gritted teeth as he hauled himself out of the water and clambered into the plane, all but crushing Grey in the tight space.

John settled in between Jamie’s trembling legs. Even without the idol, this close to Jamie, Grey couldn’t help but smile. They’d survived, safe and whole, despite Fraser’s feelings on air travel. John laid a hand on Jamie’s thigh and squeezed. “Come on,” John shouted above the roar of the plane’s engine. “Show a little backbone, won’t you?”

Jamie squeezed John's arm with one big hand. "I'll be showing my breakfast," he retorted. He groaned miserably and laid his forehead on Grey's shoulder. "Man wasna meant to fly. Specifically this man. _Oh God_."

* * *

**Inverness- 1922.**

John Grey unlocked the front door of their house in Inverness and pushed it open, stepping inside. He kicked his mud-caked boots off at the door. “Anyone home?” he called out.

A hail of small feet thundered over the hardwood floor, accompanied by a gleeful squeal. "Da! Uncle John! Papa Murtagh, they're home!" 

Jamie grinned, his heart soaring with joy at the sight of his daughter as she charged down the hall like a redheaded juggernaut. She plowed into Jamie's legs and he swung her up into his arms. He kissed her cheek and squeezed her tight, his days of seasickness at last soothed by the tiny arms around his neck. "There's my lass," he said, suppressing tears of joy. They'd been gone over a month this time.

Brianna straightened and reached for John. "Uncle John, did you find the treasure?"

John pulled Brianna into his arms, cradling her in tight to his chest. Her long legs dangled down his side. “I did, my dear.” A frown flashed across his face, then tugged back up into a smile. He sat Brianna down, then reached into his leather satchel. He pulled a doll from his pack, a pretty French thing they’d picked up when they were doing research in Marseille. 

She snatched the doll out of his hand and hugged it before crashing back into John. “She’s beautiful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Grey cupped her cheek and dipped down to give her a kiss on the forehead, then he lifted his gaze to Jamie. 

Jamie gave John a reassuring smile. _We'll_ _get it back,_ he thought in John's direction. "Aye, _a chuisle_ ," he said, running his fingers over his daughter's fiery braids. "All will be well," Jamie said to John, sliding his arm around John's waist for a brief embrace. 

Heavy footsteps came around the corner, carrying Murtagh into the foyer. "An' don't ye both look awful," he said, grinning broadly. Jamie laughed at his godfather's standard greeting. Murtagh spread his arms wide to hug Jamie, offering a rather formal—if cordial—handshake to John. "Aye weel, supper's ready. I expect ye havena kept food in ye for a week, have ye?"

Grey shot a look over to Jamie, lips tipped into a knowing smirk. “Jamie? No. He possesses a constitution as solid as steel.” John clapped Jamie on the shoulder. 

Murtagh snorted. "Rusted steel, maybe." The older man shooed Brianna ahead of them. "Go on, lass, and set the table."

"Aye, Papa Murtagh!" Brianna declared and took off running. The wee firecracker only had one speed. 

Jamie brought up the rear, his hand resting casually on John's back as they made their way to the dining room. "Was she well behaved while we were gone?" Jamie asked.

"That lass?" Murtagh snorted. "She's a pint-sized, female version of her father. I'll need to sleep for a week to recover. I'm nay so young as I used to be, lad."

“Maybe we’ll have to spend a little more time around home, then?” John said, leaning back into Jamie’s touch. 

Jamie hummed without any substance to it. As long as Frank Randall still had that idol, they had work to do. But there was nothing he could say that wouldn't worry Brianna. "Aye, maybe," he muttered. 

Brianna made hasty work of setting their little round table, getting the forks and knives reversed. Jamie praised the effort and pulled her chair out for her with an exaggerated bow. She sketched a curtsey and giggled, blue hair ribbons bobbing as she scampered into her seat. 

Jamie's stomach rumbled at the savory aroma wafting from the kitchen. "Did ye help Papa Murtagh cook dinner?" he asked. 

"No," Brianna answered, wrinkling her nose. "I'm glad you're home, Da. We've only had haggis and porridge for days."

"Hey, that's nay true," Murtagh protested. "I fried bacon last week."

Brianna gave Jamie a look full of suffering and sighed dramatically. "I like haggis," she hastened to explain. "But I don't like to make it. Too yucky."

John settled down in a chair beside Brianna and whispered to her. “I don’t like it either. You’re right. It is yucky.”

She giggled in response, looking perfectly at home as her uncle’s co-conspirator. Murtagh gave them both a disapproving look as he laid the plate of haggis down at the center of the table, then brought a dish of porridge to set beside it. 

They passed the dishes around the table and filled their plates, Brianna chattering about school and a frog she’d caught by the pond. 

John scooped a heaping bite of the haggis and tucked it in between his lips. He swallowed, then looked warmly at Jamie. “I say, that’s a good deal better than the rations they gave us in the army, at least.”

Jamie nodded, snorting a short laugh. "Aye, that's true. At least this is hot. And we can drink coffee, we dinna have to suck on the raw grounds."

"You couldn't make coffee?" Brianna asked around a mouthful of haggis. Murtagh cleared his throat and she sheepishly covered her mouth with one hand, chewing with her lips clamped tight. 

"Nay," Jamie answered. "To cook we would have had to use fire. And the Germans would have seen the light and known where we were."

Brianna nodded, satisfied in that simple way of small children. 

Jamie met John's gaze across the table, their shared history passing silently between them. They were both thinking about miserably cold trenches and huddling together in the mud to stay warm. Of passing the time telling stories of home. And when Jamie had gotten a letter from Claire that he now had a daughter, they'd wept and celebrated together.

Dinner passed in good conversation. Brianna proudly explained to Jamie and John that her hair ribbons were new. "And look, Uncle John, Dolly has the same color bow!"

“She does.” John stroked one of her braids. “I know it’s your favorite color.”

“I love you, Uncle John.”

Color bloomed on Grey’s cheeks and his eyes cast down to his empty dinner plate, then his hand moved beneath the table to touch Jamie’s thigh. “I love you too.” 

After dinner, John helped Bree collect the dishes and bring them to the sink. He knelt down so his face was near Brianna’s height and winked. “I’ll wash them, if you dry.” 

Brianna agreed happily, then scampered off. She returned, dragging a wooden stool across the floor behind her. She stepped up onto it and snatched a dish towel off the counter. The look on her face said _reporting for duty._

After the dishes were cleaned and returned to their place in the cabinets, they spent the evening in each other’s quiet and familiar company. Brianna’s mouth stretched into small yawns where she was curled up on the easy chair near the fireplace. In moments, she was sound asleep with her head pillowed on the armrest. 

“Looks like the wee lass has finally run herself down after all the excitement.” Murtagh walked over to the chair and scooped Brianna’s gangly frame into his arms. Murtagh let out a huff from the effort. “We willna be able to call her wee much longer.” He carted the sleeping child off, her braids waving like flags behind her. 

Grey crossed the room to join Jamie on the sofa and tucked into his chest. “Brianna has grown so much since we left, hasn’t she?”

"Aye, like a weed," Jamie agreed, wrapping his arms around John and kissing the top of his head. They sat for a long moment, snuggled in comfortable silence before Jamie spoke, voice low. "What did ye mean earlier about staying home more?" 

“I was just thinking with Bree that we’re missing so much. And Murtagh said it himself, he’s not getting any younger. Besides, I can’t even count the amount of times we almost died these last several weeks. What if something happened to us, to you especially… It could be good to settle down some, Jamie. I could get a job teaching at the college.” 

'It wasna but one day of actual peril." Jamie answered John's glare with a grin. The thought of staying in one place, of living a quiet life of pastoral domesticity was… terrifying, if Jamie was being perfectly honest with himself. John was right, of course. Bree needed him, needed them both. But Jamie needed to be in motion, needed to outrun his demons. He shook his head and laid his cheek on top of John's hair. "Nay, that's not who we are. You couldna be content to hang up your hat and whip naymore than I'd be happy to see you do it."

Grey let out a breath, then squeezed his hand over Jamie’s. “It was just a thought. But I reckon you’re right.” He sighed again, but then looked up at Jamie with a smirk. “And I do enjoy seeing you flushed by the heat of danger.” He leaned up, keeping Jamie close, and stole a long kiss.

Murtagh cleared his throat and Grey startled back. “I… um… sorry.”

Murtagh’s gaze trained on Jamie and he shook his head. “Why could ye no’ have found a nice Scottish man to bugger?”

Jamie narrowed his eyes at his godfather. "Aye, well, a nice Scottish man's arse would be too tight, wouldn't it?"

Murtagh let out a long suffering sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose as if fending off a sudden headache. He muttered something about bloody sassenachs and _the good old days_ and headed toward his room.

“Before we send your godfather to an early grave, we may want to take this to the bedroom.” Grey leaned back as if to stand, still holding to Jamie’s hand. John’s eyes were dark as he sank teeth into his bottom lip, intention obvious. 

"Murtagh will outlive us both from sheer stubbornness." Jamie pulled John close to him again, took his face in both hands, and kissed him thoroughly. "But I like the way ye think, Dr. Grey. Aye, let's go to bed."

“Only if you promise to keep calling me Dr. Grey,” he growled low in Jamie’s ear. 

They stumbled and tripped to the bedroom and Grey shut and locked the door behind them. “In case Bree wakes up,” he said against Jamie’s lips before blocking any chance of reply with his mouth and his tongue. John didn’t stop kissing Jamie even as he attacked the buttons on Jamie’s shirt, exposing his bare chest to the chill air. 

John pulled away from the kiss. “I’ll never get enough of this.” He slowly sank, kissing a line down, tracing over the peaks and valleys of muscle and bone until his knees landed on the rug. Grey’s hand gripped Jamie’s belt and his bottom lip slacked open as he looked up through his lashes. 

"Neither will I," Jamie agreed, running the fingers of one hand through John's hair, leaving it intentionally wild. "The sight of the infamous Dr. Grey on his knees for me doesna dull with time." He stooped low and sucked John's lower lip into his mouth, nipped it, and let it go. "Ye want to taste my cock, don't ye?"

“You know I do,” John said, wetting his lips. He unbuckled Jamie’s belt and yanked it from his trousers. He whipped the leather through the air and it snapped like his whip, sending a delicious shiver down Jamie’s spine. The belt clattered on the floor. “Don’t hold back, Fraser. You saw what I could do in that jungle. I can take whatever you throw my way.”

Jamie straightened and smirked down at John, thinking of his lover filthy and sweaty in the Peruvian jungle. He swiped his thumb across John's moist lips and slid the digit into his mouth, pressing lightly on John's tongue. "I ken ye can." His free hand worked the button and zipper of his trousers. "Let's put that mouth of yours to work, aye?"

Grey shoved Jamie’s hands out of the way and wrapped his own firm touch around Jamie’s prick. He worked it with the practiced fingers of a man who’d become an expert in just what made Jamie Fraser fall apart. Then, he leaned forward and filled his mouth with cock. 

John’s mouth was warm and wet and he did _that thing_ with his tongue that left Jamie gasping. Jamie rested his hand on the back of John’s head, urging him forward until the head of his cock slid all the way to the back of his throat. It had been a very long voyage from South America and Jamie was wound tight, holding back only for the sake of making it last. He eyed his discarded belt, shivering again to think of that whip-crack sound. Jamie groaned. No, he couldn’t actually hold back with this man. He twisted his fingers into John’s hair and found their familiar rhythm easily, thrusting roughly in and out of John’s mouth. “Christ, John, it’s been too long,” he murmured. He tightened his grip in John’s hair, pulling _not quite hard enough_ to hurt. “Do ye want me to come in yer mouth? Or on yer cock?”

John’s eyes went wide and he pulled his mouth off Jamie carefully. He stood, then took hold of Jamie’s open shirt with a rough grip. “Take your clothes off and get on the goddamn bed.” 

Jamie grinned down at John and yanked him in for a kiss that tasted of himself and the beer they’d had with dinner. He hastily shucked his shirt and stepped out of his trousers puddled around his feet. It was only a few steps backward until his legs bumped into the bedframe, and he sat on the mattress, scooting toward the modest pile of pillows. To see John so ferociously wanting sent an electric thrill through him.

John made quick work of his own clothing, throwing it into a reckless pile on the floor. Naked, he crawled onto the bed like some wild and untamed creature. He claimed Jamie’s lips in a rough kiss, while he searched blind for the small bottle of oil they kept in the nightstand. John pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it out. It bounced on the hardwood floor as he poured the fruity oil on his fingers. Grey sank one, then two fingers, hastily but still carefully into Jamie.

It took a considerable effort of will for Jamie to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head and staying there. But he loved this version of John, raw and uncensored. Jamie didn’t want to miss it when John unraveled completely. He moaned, hoping it wasn’t as loud as it felt in his throat. “One more,” Jamie said. “I need ye now.”

John gave Jamie the one more he asked for, working him until he was wet and softly blooming open. He coated his prick with more of that oil, then slid up Jamie’s body, guiding his knees back with steady, experienced hands. Grey positioned himself in the wetness between Jamie’s legs. He sank himself in saying, “I need you too. Now. Always.”

Jamie bit down on his lower lip as John filled him. His hands were restless, roaming from John’s legs, to his hips, and arms, shoulders. Jamie dragged John down, letting their chests come together in a wavering line. His leaking cock lay hard and desperate between them and he claimed John’s mouth in a kiss that was tongue and ravenous need. “Take yer pleasure from me, John,” Jamie said, their lips brushing. “I’ll follow.”

With a wordless groan, Grey snapped his hips forward. He angled in deep, thorough, then slid almost all the way out before pounding back in again. Over and over, he thrust and took and took, his lips letting loose a series of unholy curses. He tugged Jamie’s prick with one hand and pinned his wrist back to the mattress with the other.

“Oh, fuck. Christ. Fuck _. Jamie,”_ John cried, then buried his face in the sweaty crook of Jamie’s shoulder, whimpering, as he released himself as deep inside as possible.

“Oh God, John,” Jamie groaned, spilling between them. He fisted John’s hair with his free hand and brought their mouths together, swallowing down all those beautiful, wrecked sounds. Jamie relaxed his grip, converting his touch to gentle strokes, grounding them both to each other. 

John slipped out of Jamie, dragging a kiss along his cheek as he did, then rolled over onto his side, perched up on his elbow. Grinning, he looked down at Jamie, brow drawn together to make small ridges over his nose. “How was there ever a time for me? Before you? It seems impossible.”

Jamie cupped his hand over John’s cheek, wiping away a bead of sweat with his thumb. “I dinna ken,” he whispered earnestly. “But that time brought us here, together. Right where we need to be.” He kissed John on the lips, open mouthed and brief, but sincere. “I love you, John Grey.”

“You’re not bad yourself, Jamie Fraser.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. John Grey is teaching at Harvard University when Jamie Fraser, who Grey hasn’t seen in sixteen years, shows up unannounced and in desperate need of his help.

**Boston — 1939.**

Dr. John Grey dragged himself naked out of bed, while the other man remained asleep. He searched the unfamiliar floor for his trousers as light streamed in through the blinds, fading the apartment into the shady facsimile of a low budget film noir. 

Cigarette smoke hung pungent and suffocating in the air, and the blaring horns of early morning traffic clanged through paper-thin walls. His head ached, punishment for the two or maybe three bottles of wine he’d shared with the man whose bare arse crested like a soft, pale hill over threadbare sheets.

Percy? It _was_ Percy, wasn’t it? Yes, it was, John decided, remembering quite vividly the name he’d called when he’d come the night before. Twice, when all was said and done.

This Percy was a better lay than Grey’d had in quite a while. The fact that Percy could carry on a reasonably intelligent conversation was simply icing on an already decadent cake. 

Still, Grey planned to make his exit before Percy awoke. It was easier to skip the awkward morning after conversation. Besides, John had back to back classes to teach this morning and only an hour to get to his first one. If he remembered correctly from the night before, at least Percy’s apartment wasn’t too far from campus. 

Grey was lacing up his boots when he heard a stirring of bed linens. Percy was stretching awake, a mop of dark, untamed curls on his head.

Percy let out a contented sigh, the sound of a man who’s been thoroughly sated and woken up still on the drowsy wings of orgasmic bliss. He blinked at Grey, eyes the color of rich bourbon. It apparently dawned on him that he’d caught Grey in the act of retreat, and a little of the light fell out of Percy’s eyes. “So, do all infamous treasure hunting archaeologists plunder and disappear into the sunrise, or is that a personal idiosyncrasy?” There was no accusation in his tone, but his disappointment, though held in check, was evident. 

“I have a class to teach this morning and I figured you deserved your rest after last night,” Grey said. He would usually be more disappointed that his recent conquest woke up before he could make his escape, but he actually did like Percy, which made it both better and worse. 

It was simpler when he didn’t enjoy their company, when he wasn’t tempted to repeat their tryst. Between Hector Dalrymple and Jamie Fraser, Grey had survived two crushing heartbreaks in his life, and a third was out of the question. 

Percy sat up against the headboard, pulling the rumpled sheet across his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. “Were you planning on leaving your telephone number, or will I have to enroll in one of your classes if I want to see you again?”

Grey shut his eyes and let out a breath through his nose. These kinds of interactions were exactly what he intended on avoiding when he snuck out of men’s apartments while they were still asleep. He was actually tempted to give his number to this man, repeat the satisfactory events of the evening before, but the fact that he was tempted to give Percy his number was the precise reason why he couldn’t.

“I truly enjoyed myself last night. However, I think it’s for the best that we leave it at fond memories.” He finished lacing his boot and made his way to the front door.

Percy hummed, skeptically. “Fond memories. Right.” If he said anything else, Grey didn’t hear it through the closed door.

If John Grey felt guilt for the cold way he’d shut the door both to Percy’s apartment and to any hope of a repeat performance, he shoved it down deep with the collection of feelings he was too old and too tired to let himself feel. There were enough down there that the memories and feelings and emotions could manage to keep themselves company without his interference. 

By the time Grey made it to his offices at Harvard, he was desperate for a cup of coffee. Even the cheap, bitter grounds they kept in the lounge in the anthropology department. He yawned as he filled a chipped mug to the brim, then tipped the liquid back into his mouth, not bothering to temper its awful taste with sugar or cream. 

The door swung open to reveal his assistant, arriving late, pale faced and more tired than even Grey. That was what a newborn would do to even the most energetic and punctual of men such as Tom Byrd. 

Tom mumbled a pitiable, “Good morning, Dr. Grey,” and poured coffee from the stained pot into the dregs in the bottom of his tin travel mug. He scrubbed one hand over his face, emphasizing the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He took several deep swallows of his tar before actually making eye contact with Grey. 

“Morning, my dear fellow,” Grey said, lips turned up into a playful smile. “How’s the little one? And the old ball and chain?” John actually quite liked Tom’s wife, but he liked teasing and frustrating Tom about as much. 

“Evelyn says it’s colic and there’s nothing to do about it.” Tom took another gulp of coffee, grimacing. “The hall rug is worn out from pacing all night, every night. For the last two weeks.” He upended his mug, drained it, and refilled it from the pot. After another sip, he nodded, starting to come to life by degrees. Tom narrowed his eyes at Grey, then glanced at his own wristwatch. “You’re in yesterday’s suit, I see. Where’d you pick this one up? Not another fan who listened to one of your lectures, I hope?”

“If you must know, I met him at the gala for the opening of that new museum exhibit. And if he happened to have heard my name before and appreciated the work that I do, then well, it would be unfair of me to hold it against him.” Grey clapped Byrd on the shoulder as he passed by him. “I do have one of the lectures to get to. Maybe this suit will get a third day’s use.”

With a quiet laugh that did not amuse Tom Byrd, Grey left the dreary lounge for the bustling hallway. A gaggle of sophomores from his afternoon class on ancient Egypt appraised him through long mascara-caked lashes. Grey put on a forced smile. He’d collected and destroyed enough of their notes of secret admiration to know just what many of his female students thought about him. They, however, didn’t know that beyond being their professor, their particular attributes did nothing to seduce him. That was not to say he hadn’t found enjoyable company with some of their older brothers or, occasionally, a good looking father. 

John Grey stepped through the threshold of his classroom and let it transform him into Dr. Grey, professor of archaeology and anthropology at Harvard University. He walked to the front of the classroom to stand between the chalkboard and the expansive oak desk. Adjusting his glasses, he scanned the faces set out before him. Some looked ready to learn, others looked barely awake, likely hungover, and others were observing him with the dreamy eyes of sexual attraction. 

Grey ignored the faces as much as he could and slipped into his lecture on the building materials of medieval architecture. He was halfway through explaining the use of wattle and daub throughout much of Europe, when the door at the back of the class opened and a hulking figure ducked through the doorway—broad shoulders, flaming red hair, and slanted blue eyes that Grey would know anywhere. Even after nearly two decades had passed. Even halfway across the world. Jamie Fraser.

“Class is dismissed,” John nearly shouted.

“But, Professor,” said one of the students. “We still have half an hour left.”

“Class dismissed,” he repeated, even more harshly this time.

All the students jolted up from their desks, creating a roar of sound between squeaking chairs, clunking boots, clacking heels, and confused murmurs. Despite all the distraction between them, John kept his eyes trained on Fraser, as if he looked away for even a second the man would evaporate like mist. 

Fraser wore an olive green suit, modern but a little worse for wear, much like the man himself. He had that impenetrable mask on his face that concealed his true feelings from almost everyone, but behind it his eyes were haunted. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tapping the fingers of his right hand against his leg. Jamie kept his eyes on Grey over the sea of fleeing students, and waited until the last one had let the door shut behind her. “I’m sorry to have interrupted yer class,” he said. His voice was exactly the same, of course, if a bit thready. His lips spread in a smile that brought a stormy kind of light to his face. “It’s good to see you, John.”

Grey had been so shocked by Jamie’s reappearance he’d forgotten to be furious. And then Fraser had greeted him with _It’s good to see you, John._ Simple. Easy. As if the years apart hadn’t cut Grey deep enough to leave him nigh unrecognizable from the man he’d once been. He swallowed, mentally steadying himself before speaking. His jaw twitched. “What are you doing here?”

Fraser’s smile faltered, slipping away into something uncertain, nervous. “Would ye believe me if I told ye I was in the neighborhood?”

“I would say it took you long enough.” Sixteen years to be exact. “And I’d also say you’re a damn liar. If you’re at all the man I once knew, then you must have an especially compelling reason for enduring a trans-Atlantic flight.”

All the air went out of Jamie and that guarded expression completely vanished, revealing deep lines of fear, worry, and exhaustion. “I need yer help, John. Brianna’s missing.”

* * *

John’s office looked exactly as Jamie would have imagined it, if he’d taken the time to think about it over the course of the last decade and a half. He hadn’t, of course. He’d never taken the time to imagine the books crowded on every horizontal surface, nor that they would appear to stand in utter disarray to everyone but John Grey himself. Jamie couldn’t have found the time to consider where John would have displayed the quirkier treasures from their adventures that he couldn’t bear to donate to a museum. He hadn’t had the time to wonder what wee odds and ends might be haphazardly arranged in this dense magpie’s nest, evidence of John’s accidental kleptomania. And Jamie had most certainly never thought that John probably kept his bullwhip in the bottom right drawer of his desk.

The door with its frosted pane of glass closed behind them, and Jamie took the time to glance about the office. His eyes landed on a handful of those familiar treasures, broken bits of ancient daily life, mostly. An urn from the burial chamber of a pyramid, their first expedition together after the war. A ceremonial dagger with a jeweled blade from Greece, from their last. A British Army medal for valor from their service in the Great War, that John and Jamie had been awarded the same day. A little doll from France with blue hair ribbons faded after almost twenty years of exposure to light. Artifacts of a life long-gone.

Jamie’s heart thundered in his chest so loud he was certain John would hear it. His hands ached with the urge to touch him, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t. It had been sixteen years since they’d last spoken. And that last conversation had been a sharp thing. Jamie’s chest tightened painfully at the memory of the horrific things they’d said to each other, of the things they _hadn’t_ said to each other.

But it was far too late for that now. That was eons ago. And Brianna was missing.

“She was studying abroad,” Jamie said without preamble, desperate to focus on anything that wasn’t the history he shared with this man who he had once loved. “We wrote every week. Her letters came in on Wednesdays, sometimes Thursdays if the weather was bad. But last week, her letter didna come. I telephoned the university on Friday, and they said she’d left for home on Tuesday. She didna come home.” He looked at the calendar on the wall by John’s cluttered desk. Wednesday. “She hasna been seen in over a week.” If it had been for his own sake, Jamie wouldn’t have come. John wouldn’t help him. But maybe, for the sake of Bree… “Please. Will ye help me find our lass, John?”

John blinked, mouth opening and closing. He gripped one of the bookshelves tight enough to make his knuckles white. “Are you certain that no one has seen her? Have you spoken to any of her friends?”

Jamie nodded. "Aye, I did. Every one that I could think of. None of them have heard from Bree in at least a week. Her roommate was a lass named Gail. She told me the same thing the university did, that Bree had gone home." _Eejit,_ Jamie thought. If he had miscalculated and John wouldn't help him even for Bree's sake, then he would have wasted more than three days by the time he got back to Scotland. "She wouldna have quit early. And she wouldna have left without writing or phoning me first."

“Shit,” John said. “Shit. I was hoping maybe she’d just run off with some bloke you disapproved of and was avoiding confrontation. Instead of… fuck, Jamie. Someone has to know something, even if they don’t know where she is. Maybe she said something in one of the letters she’d sent to you that would give us an idea of where she might be, someone unusual she’d been spending time with. What does Claire say about this?” 

The bottom dropped out of Jamie's stomach and his back itched under his shirt where sweat trickled down his spine. He warred with himself, about how much to tell. On the one hand, there had once been a time that Jamie had shared everything with this man. _Everything_. But that trust was broken, scattered to the four winds. He took in a deep breath and locked down his emotions from view.

"Claire doesna know," he said. "We havena spoken to her in six years."

Grey drew in a sharp breath. “Oh… oh, I’m sorry. I…” he frowned. “I wish I knew where to start. Do you think she was actually planning to come home, but wanted to surprise you and was stopped somehow, or that the story about returning home was covering something else she was planning to do?”

"Nay, she kens I hate surprises." Jamie drummed the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. "Nay, I think she was looking for something, but I dinna ken what. And she didna want me finding out about it." Jamie's eyes absently read the titles on the nearest bookshelf, all familiar to him, all authored by one Dr. John Grey. He turned his back to the volumes and gave John an impassive stare. "I think ye might ken something about it though."

Grey pushed back his glasses, making them sit higher on his nose. He titled his head. “What makes you think I would know something about it? I haven’t spoken to Brianna since she was a child. But then,” he spoke through his teeth. “You know that.”

"Actually, ye have," Jamie said. "She's read every single book ye've ever published. At least three times. Even when I wouldna tell her about our adventures, she just read about them." Jamie hadn't intended to say so much, but now he couldn't help himself and the words poured out of him. "She's studying archaeology. She'll have her doctorate in a year or two. She's as brilliant as her mother, as reckless as me, and as single-mindedly obsessed with solving mysteries as ye once were." Jamie gripped the back of a chair so hard that it squealed against the floorboards. "I think she's run off to research something but I dinna ken what."

The breath Grey let out sounded pained, forced. Then, he turned to his bookshelves, tugging one of his own half way from its place. He tapped the spine with a sturdy finger. “Do you think maybe what she’s researching is something from one of my books? Has she mentioned which one she read most recently? Or a particular favorite?” He turned around and gave Jamie a wary smile. “Not to make her out like she’s some sort of obsessed fan.” 

Jamie gave him back a fond smile. "Aye, but she is." Bree had always been John's biggest fan. She'd adored him as Uncle John, and now she positively idolized Dr. Grey, the brilliant scientist. "All of them," Jamie answered seriously. "But lately she’s been going on about the ones from what she calls yer ‘dark period.’” He crooked his fingers in air quotes. “The books about ancient stone circles.” He arched a questioning eyebrow at John. “She said she kent ye wrote them in a library. And that someone should do actual field research someday.”

“Your daughter is quite perceptive, though I only did the research in the library. I mostly wrote them in a shitty pub in London.” John’s brow furrowed as he pulled down three books, and dropped them on the desk. “If you think Brianna has gone off to research these stones, we have a problem. There’s fifteen that I know of in ten different countries. We may have to narrow it down some unless you’re keen to spend the next several months on an airplane or a passenger ship.” 

Jamie's waim flipped and curdled and he felt himself grow quite green at the thought. He braced a hand against his stomach and fought the urge to vomit just from the memory of yesterday's grueling flight. He shook his head—gingerly. "Nay, I verra much do not. She kept a journal, but she must have it wi' her." 

Whatever John was about to say next was cut short by the abrupt approaching thunder of a manic mob. Jamie straightened and stared at the door, at the cacophonous, distorted figures through the frosted window. "What the devil?"

John ran a hand through his hair, a deep frown growing on his face. “Goddammit. You’d think my adoring fans—’”the words were spoken bitterly—”could manage to take one day off from their harassment.” He eyed the window, then stalked over to his desk. He bent down and there was the sound of a drawer opening. When Grey stood back up, his brown fedora was sat on his head and his whip was grasped in one hand. He strode past Jamie and shoved open the window. “Tell me, Fraser. When’s the last time you had to escape a crazed mob? For me it was last Thursday.”

Jamie grinned at John, and just like that, the years and miles and hurt that had separated them evaporated. A lot of it anyway. “My last mob was wi’ ye. In Cairo.” Jamie followed John through the open window, grateful his office was on the first floor. “Ye blamed me at the time, but I’m starting to think ye just attract the wrong sort of crowd.”

“That would explain how I met you.” Grey climbed out the window, disappearing before there was the sound of his boots hitting the ground. “Come on. What are you waiting for?” 

“A snappy comeback to come t’ mind,” Jamie said and crashed into the hedge next to John. “But I canna think of one because ye’re right.” He looked over his shoulder to the open window and then back at John. “After you, Dr. Grey.”

Grey looked over his shoulder, then whispered. “This way.” He made his way beside the building, staying low to remain hidden in the bushes. When they came to the end of the hedge to an asphalt lot, John stood, ushering Jamie forward with a wave of his hand. He stepped a single foot onto the lot. A shrill voice rang out, scaring several blackbirds from a nearby tree.

“Oh my God! There he is. It’s Professor Grey!” A girl in a petal-pink dress waved her hand, bracelets, jingling. “Professor Grey. Did you get my letter?”

“Run,” Grey growled, then burst into a sprint across the lot. He grabbed the handles of a motorbike and hurled a leg over it, calling out to Jamie. “Age hasn’t done your speed any favors.”

“It’s no’ the years, John, tis the miles,” Jamie retorted, skidding to a halt and eying the motorbike and its rickety sidecar with suspicion. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the mob had indeed gotten wise to their escape and was closing in fast. “Christ,” he grumbled and wedged his large frame into the wee rolling bucket, his knees bent near to his ears. God willing, John didn’t plan to take him sight-seeing in this ridiculous contraption.

John looked down at Jamie, and a small laugh sputtered out of his lips before he shut himself up. He jammed the key into the ignition and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The motorbike jolted forward with a horrible lurch and rumbled on the asphalt. Grey whipped the vehicle onto the street, chugging forward. The sidecar bounced and screeched as the bike struggled to pull the weighed-down sidecar along. 

* * *

John parked the motorbike on the street in front of a modest stone-face house with a bright green lawn as lovingly—or professionally—manicured as every other home along the quiet avenue. Jamie braced his hands on the sides of the sidecar and heaved, succeeding only in cracking his own spine loudly. “ _Merde_ ,” he spat, stretching his legs as far as he could, approximately two inches. He pushed himself up and back with a grunt of effort, at last working one leg free and stumbling to the curb. Jamie sat hard in the grass and glared up at John. “Ye’re no’ getting me in that thing again.”

“You’ve said that to me before, Fraser. It didn’t stick.” John’s gaze fixed on Jamie’s face, then dropped down and moved back up again. “Dear God,” he said, mostly to himself, then reached out a hand to help Jamie back up.

He accepted John’s hand, letting him help Jamie haul himself to his feet. Jamie winced and flexed one knee, following John up the path to the front door and swallowing down a nagging qualm as John turned his key in the lock. He had only been in a home that was just John’s space—rather than _their_ space—a few times after they’d come home from war. That had been in the very early days of their relationship, and John’s meager bachelor flat had hardly been what one might call a home. 

As Jamie crossed the threshold a few paces behind Grey, he looked around with open curiosity. The furniture was well-loved and of decent quality, conditioned leather and practical wood. There were fewer shelves and the place was less cluttered than his office. Stacks of papers crowded the coffee table and the leather of the farthest cushion dipped a little from repeated use. Jamie couldn’t pick out any obvious signs of another inhabitant, and he tried not to think too hard about why that comforted him. “It looks as though ye’ve done well for yerself,” he said, meaning it.

“I make do,” John said. “Given the circumstances. I’ll never be able to… have what you had. A family and all that, I mean, so… I compensate with expensive furniture and very good books.” The words made an attempt at lightness, but there was something strained there. “Speaking of books, I’ll gather what I have on the stones. If you want, there’s beer in the refrigerator and whisky in the bar cart.”

The bar cart stood against the wall to Jamie’s right, separating the sitting room from the cozy dining room. He selected two crystal glasses and correctly guessed which of the coordinating decanters of amber liquid contained John’s good scotch whisky, pouring a dram for each of them. Jamie took a sip from one, inhaling the aroma of earthy peat and sweet smoke. He set the second glass on the dining table, next to a stack of unopened mail. A small, paper-wrapped parcel caught his eye, and he nearly dismissed it outright. But then he actually looked at the thing, read the address penned in a graceful, feminine hand with it’s flourished capital letters and curling tails. Jamie’s heart ground to a halt in his chest, his vision wavering. The class came down hard on the polished wooden table, sloshing the whisky about. Jamie couldn’t breathe, couldn’t rub two thoughts together, but he managed to croak out an urgent, “John!”

Books haphazard in his arms, John rushed back into the room. He dropped one but didn’t bother picking it up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jamie held up the parcel. It was still sealed and there was no return address. “When did ye get this?”

“Yesterday,” he said. “I was going to open it when I got home, but I… didn’t get home. Until now. Why?”

“It’s from Bree.” Jamie thrust the parcel at John. “That’s Brianna’s handwriting.”

Grey set the books down on a side table, then took the package from Jamie. His fingers shook as he tore through the wrapping. He revealed a worn, leather bound journal and flipped through some of the pages. A photograph fell onto the floor. 

It had been taken out front of their old home in Inverness. Little Bree stood between the two men, her beaming face between two perfect braids almost certainly plaited by Murtagh. 

Slowly, John bent down to pick it up. He stared down at the image that wobbled in his grasp. “I think this may be Brianna’s journal.” 

Jamie took the journal from John’s hand, running his thumb over the embossed initials BEF. “Aye, ‘tis.” He swallowed hard on a wave of grief and longing when he looked at the grainy photograph. He remembered the day they’d had it made. A lifetime ago and worlds away. 

Shaking himself, Jamie refocused his attention on the issue at hand. “There was nay return address. Where is the postmark from?”

Grey knelt down to retrieve the discarded wrapping from the floor and smoothed it open. “France,” he said. “Looks like Paris. Does Brianna know anyone in Paris?”

Jamie shook his head. “She and Gail stayed in Rennes. I suppose they might have gone to Paris to explore the city, but… nay, Bree would have mentioned her plans in her last letter, and Gail didnae say anything about Paris.” Jamie’s chest grew tight with worry and he clenched one hand into a fist at his side. “Nay, something about this is wrong.”

“It feels invasive to read her journal, but she did send it to me. That must’ve been for a reason.” Grey brought his thumb to his lips and chewed on the edge of the nail, brow drawn together. “Unless… do you remember when those Spanish graverobbers were after us that summer in Granada? I wrote about it in one of the books. They were on our tail so we sent that jade pendant to Murtagh. The one that we dated to the Inquisition. What if she sent this to me to protect it, if there’s someone after her, they could find you. But, as far as anyone is concerned, Bree and I are… strangers. They wouldn’t know to come looking here.”

All the blood drained from Jamie’s face and he nodded. If he had to pick one of John’s books to name as Bree’s favorite, it would have been that one. Whatever nightmares Jamie had been trying not to imagine, they all seemed to be coming true. Jamie knew as well as John what sort of man sought priceless antiquities for personal gain, without regard for the human collateral left in their wake. The kind of man driven by money, deterred only by their own death.

Jamie’s mouth had gone very dry and his voice was hoarse and shook with barely contained rage. “Will ye come wi’ me to Paris?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post every Sunday and Wednesday!
> 
> This chapter fills Ash's Outlander Bingo Square: **Geillis Duncan**

**Paris — 1939**

It had been years since John Grey had found his way to Paris, and even more years than that since he’d found his way here with Jamie Fraser. With the green lawns of the Tuileries Garden spread out before them, Grey could not help but be reminded of that last time he was here with Jamie. Of those mornings spent in tucked-away cafes eating buttery croissants and guzzling espresso until it made them twitch. And those afternoons spent in dusty libraries or in forbidden catacombs. And the evenings, _dear God_ , the evenings spent drinking French wine until they couldn’t feel their faces and all they could think to do was make love on the floor. 

Even with the reminders all around him and Jamie beside him, that time and that Paris were nothing more than fond memories

 _Let’s leave it at fond memories,_ he thought bitterly of those words he’d spoken to the last man he’d taken to bed. The very morning Jamie had crashed back into his life and blown everything all to hell again.

Their flights from Boston had been a hellish twenty-one hours, the duration of which Grey had spent reassuring the concerned stewardesses that _No, my friend will be quite alright, thank you_. When he wasn’t muttering terse thanks for a dozen useless pieces of advice about combating air sickness, he dabbed cold cloths on Fraser’s neck and forehead, trying to convince him that he wouldn’t actually vomit himself inside-out.

“So, Fraser, you know your daughter… where in this grand city should we begin our search?”

A courier on a bicycle zipped past them and Jamie looked away, still green and miserable from the long flight, but upright and determined. After a thoughtful pause, Jamie answered. “The Bibliothèque Mazarine in St-Germain-des-Prés. If she were here willingly, that is.”

Grey’s lips moved into a small smile that faded and left him hollow. Did that library conjure the same memories in Jamie as it did in him? It had been a risk that day that Jamie had shoved him against the stacks and kissed him, the hushed sound of the other patrons mulling around them.

“Have you lost your mind?” Grey had whispered against warm lips.

“Aye, I’m a madman,” Jamie had hissed back. “Mad for wanting ye so.” His big hands had shoved their way under Grey’s coat, untucked the tail of his shirt halfway, just enough to leave John looking disheveled but not suspiciously so.

John would really have to stop that course of thought before he ended up with a cockstand in front of the Louvre. 

“She sent the journal from here so she had to at least have had some time before… anyone interfered,” Grey said, trying to be careful with his words. He knew how distraught Jamie had been, how concerned, and he didn’t want to add to that crushing fear unnecessarily. “If you think she’d have gone there, we should see if anyone there remembers having seen her. If she’s anything like she was as a child, I imagine she’s not easy to forget.” 

Jamie chuckled and shook his head. “She’s still a firecracker. Only she’s no’ so wee. She can almost look me in the eye without standing on her toes.” He smiled proudly.

“She’ll tower over me then, it sounds like.” Grey’s throat tightened at the thought. The last time he’d seen Brianna he’d been able to sweep her up in his arms. He clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “I’m excited to see her again. We’ll find her soon.” John squeezed Jamie’s arm, hoping his touch could bring comfort the way that it once had. 

Jamie gave John a tight smile, his blue catlike eyes calculating and distant. "Aye. We will."

  
  


The Bibliothèque Mazarine smelled just the way Grey remembered. Like old parchment and mildew and the glue from the book bindings. Their footsteps on the marble floor echoed through the expansive room, filled with towering stacks of well-worn tomes and the marble busts of important scholars and Frenchmen. Tables were stacked with books and papers spread out before eager faces devouring the centuries of collected information.

For John Grey, a place like this felt just like home.

Jamie at his side, John approached the librarian’s desk. It had been a while since Grey had used his French, but it was one of his seven languages, and if he faltered at all, Jamie—whose French was excellent—could support the conversation.

Though Grey would have to stop thinking about Jamie Fraser speaking French or he’d lose his ability to speak in any language and end up having to excuse himself to the men’s room.

The man standing behind the desk was likely too young to be the librarian—an assistant of some kind, maybe, an intern or a trainee, maybe a doctoral student—but he was young, fair-skinned with dark eyes and sharp features framed by black hair. He wore a pair of gold glasses on his nose. Even before speaking with him, the man emanated an aura that did not suggest shy or bookish. He reminded Grey of the young men he’d known at Oxford, who smoked cigarettes and memorized lewd poetry so they could quote it to girls at parties just to go home with each other. 

Grey caught the young man’s eye before he even finished approaching the desk. He’d played this game enough times to know not to smile, just raise an eyebrow in quiet, this time feigned interest and let the man reply with a barely-there smile only visible to someone looking for it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” John said in French. “I was wondering if you could assist me with something.”

The Frenchman leaned casually on the desk, tapping a finger encircled by a signet ring. His dark eyes focused on Grey. “I do have a great many things to do today, but for you, I shall make some time,” he replied back in English, likely able to tell from John’s pronunciation that it was not his native tongue. 

“It’s greatly appreciated,” John replied. “I’m looking for a young woman in her early twenties. Scottish. Red hair like his.” 

The man eyed Jamie with a slight frown, then angled his back to Fraser, leaning towards Grey. “When we find the Scot his woman,” he whispered, again in French, likely thinking Jamie could not understand him. “Then maybe you and I… well, there are a great many… _interesting_ salons in Paris.” 

John Grey had encountered enough propositions like these to know them for exactly what they were, especially ones this bold. He’d considered it once. Moving here where who he was was not considered criminal, but then he’d met Jamie Fraser and Jamie Fraser had lived in Inverness. 

An impatient, infuriated growl issued from deep in Fraser’s throat and he closed his fist abruptly around the Frenchman’s tie, dragging the young man around to face him. He leaned close over the counter, nose to nose and spoke in impeccable French, marred only by the clipped, furious tone. “The gentleman asked you a direct question, you impertinent little shit.” 

The young man let out a frightened little squeak, his fingers scrabbling on the smooth surface of the desk, unable to find purchase. Jamie switched back to English. “Now, have ye seen my daughter or no?” All of this transpired in the exaggeratedly hushed volume appropriate for a library.

The Frenchman’s reply was a strangled whisper. “ _Oui_ , I saw a young woman. Very tall, red hair.” He swallowed hard, his adams apple seeming to force its way under the tightened silk of his tie. “Angry blue eyes.”

“What else?” Jamie demanded in a hiss. “Was she wi’ anyone?”

The young man nodded. “A blond woman. She, um, did most of the talking.” His dark eyes darted to Grey and then back to Jamie. More than talking, then.

“Did she speak to you?” John added, forcing away the heat created by seeing Jamie like _that_. Forceful, demanding and maybe even… possessive? “Do you know what they were here looking for? Any books or documents they may have looked at. Or do you know who might know?”

The Frenchman nodded. “Yes, yes. I actually remember the book I directed them to. It’s a rare manuscript.” He scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper and handed it to Jamie, like he was afraid if he even looked at John the wrong way, he’d incur more of Jamie’s wrath. Fraser snatched the slip of paper and released the Frenchman with a hard shove that sent him reeling back a step.

“ _Merci_ ,” Grey with a slight smile of apology. Then, he turned his back to the librarian’s desk and stepped away, hand on Jamie’s arm. “What’s it say?”

Glaring down at the scrap of paper as if it were something distasteful rather than a valuable clue, Jamie said. “It’s an unpublished research journal by… V. G. Childe. Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because we’ve met him before. He’s an ass, but if he can help us find Bree, then at least, his work has accomplished one thing of value.” Grey put a hand on Jamie’s forearm, and the casual touch sent a chill through him. He pulled away quickly. He couldn’t let his heart go down that road.

Using the information on the scrap of paper, Grey and Fraser made their way through the Bibliotheque Mazarine with an intense focus. He pushed aside the distraction of the immaculate architecture and the memories like ghosts held within the building’s walls so he could find his way to V. G. Childe’s manuscript.

Grey skimmed the row of books and when he came upon the one they were looking for, he slid it off the shelf. Holding it in his hands, it was strange to think that Brianna was possibly the last person to have touched it. He ran his fingers over the edge of the pages and noticed something caught between them. Grey flipped it open to see a small torn piece of green plaid.

He held the fabric out to Jamie. “Does this look familiar to you?” 

Fraser took the frayed scrap of fabric and ran his thumb over its surface. “Aye. It’s a MacKenzie tartan, my mother’s clan. This is a part of Bree’s scarf.” He turned the fabric over and over in his hand, examining it critically, and then clutching it tight to his chest. “Is there anything else? What page was it in?”

“It’s…” Grey looked down at the image on the page. “It’s a map of Bulgaria. There’s a stone circle there. This likely tells us where she was headed but not why… well, not why you haven’t heard from her. Still, it’s worth going there to see if she made it there before…. We should ask that man if he remembers what day Brianna was here. It could tell us how far she may have gotten.”

Jamie muttered something in Gaelic about pigs and sexual congress and rolled his eyes. He nodded in the end. “Aye,” he said, turning back the way they’d come.

The Frenchman was still behind the same desk, and he paled considerably when he realized Jamie was stalking toward him. Grey couldn’t see his eyes of course, but judging by the agressive set of his shoulders, Fraser was glaring bloody murder at the poor man. Before the intern, or whatever he was, could back away, Fraser lunged across the counter and snatched his tie again, dragging him over the counter once more. 

“When was she here?” Jamie hissed. 

“I-ah, that is,” the Frenchman floundered.

Jamie yanked hard on his tie. “What. Day.”

“Monday!” he squeaked. “She was here last Monday! That is all I know, please.” All the suave confidence from the start of their conversation had quite vanished.

“Come on, Jamie. Leave the poor man alone. We need to get to Bulgaria.” Grey tried to guide Jamie away from the man to avoid another physical confrontation.

Fraser released the Frenchman, who slid behind the desk in a puddle of cowardice. He allowed Grey to steer him toward the exit, a rather satisfied smirk on his face. Checking his watch, Jamie swore. "Tis late. We'll no' get out of Paris tonight, and Bulgaria is a verra long walk. Too bad Tom Byrd isna here to fly us there in one of his wee death traps.”

“He’s married now, did you know? They had a baby not too long ago.”

“Did he now?” Jamie nodded, lips pursed in approval, and slid one hand into the pocket of his trousers. “Good for our wee Byrd.”

“We should get a room for the night,” Grey said, then frowned. “Or two. If that’s more comfortable for you.” He wasn’t sure which answer he preferred. On one hand, now that Jamie was here, the thought of letting him out of his sight where he could disappear terrified John, but on the other hand, it was safer if they were apart. He couldn’t risk the possibility of reigniting his own feelings, when he knew the road that led down. John Grey had watched Jamie Fraser choose someone over him once before; he’d never give the man the opportunity again. 

Fraser stared down at the paving stones beneath their feet, shoulders held stiff and one hand in his pocket as they walked. He pursed his lips, looking for all the world like he'd just sucked on a lemon but refused to admit it was sour. His eyes were unreadable in the fading sunset. "Aye," he said at last, nodding. "Two rooms is for the best, I think." 

That look on Jamie’s face made John think one room would’ve been just fine. There would be no chance of anything between them.

  
  


They found a nearby hotel with a vacancy sign in the window. Thankfully, it was not one they’d known from their previous travels to France. The lobby was filled with a thick cloud of cigarette smoke and John passed through a crowd of travelers to the front desk. A young woman in a black uniform dress stood behind the counter. She had no makeup on but a smear of red lipstick. 

“We need two rooms, please,” he asked.

“I am sorry,” she replied in English, making John realize he’d forgotten to speak to her in French. “But we only have one room available.”

“Oh.” He let out a breath. Uneasy, spidery legs crawled up his spine and he shivered to scatter them. John turned to Jamie. “We can find another hotel or…?”

Jamie blinked weary, impassive eyes at first John, then the clerk. The time change—not to mention three days of almost nonstop air sickness—must have begun taking its toll on him. Jamie shook his head. "We didna pass any other hotels with vacancies on our way. Let's just get some supper and rest, aye? It'll do."

  
  


The hotel had a small restaurant attached. They ordered a bottle of pinot noir and enjoyed it with a well-crafted cheese tray. John ordered the fish, and Jamie ordered the duck. By the time they finished their meal off with a chocolate souffle and coffee, Grey had forgotten all about the awkwardness of the evening. It was far too easy to slip into natural conversation with Jamie Fraser, even after all these years. 

It wasn’t until he was laughing at a dirty joke Fraser had made and twisting the key into the lock on their hotel room that he remembered the problem. The room was small, all shades of white, with a single, simple bed at the back of the room.

John was speechless.

Jamie crowded into John's space behind him, looking over his shoulder into the room. His hair smelled of the cigarette smoke in the restaurant, the scent of very good coffee from Fraser’s breath close to Grey’s face. “I’ll sleep on the floor. I dinna mind.” He slid past Grey, Jamie’s chest brushing his own back in a motion that was strictly efficiency of motion. Fraser opened the hope chest at the foot of the bed and frowned into it, hissed, “ _Merde_ ,” and shut it again. 

Grey sighed. “We slept in the same bed for what? Five years? One night won’t kill either one of us.”

Well, it might not kill Jamie. Grey was less certain about himself, but he wasn’t going to allow Jamie to sleep on the hard floor with no blankets, and he wasn’t going to do it himself either. Years of adventures had left him with several bestselling books and one bad back. 

Fraser ducked as he lifted his satchel from his shoulder, depositing it on the single chair. “Longer,” he muttered. “If ye count that muddy trench in Somme.”

Grey kicked off his boots. He didn’t want to think about the trenches. Those harsh, horrible pits where he’d fallen in love. “If we’re going to leave early tomorrow, we should get to bed now. I reckon our best route to Bulgaria is through Venice. I imagine Bree may have gone that way as well, and I have a few connections there. I mention some in my books. Maybe she would have looked one of them up and they could have more information for us.”

“Aye, I remember.” Jamie laid his coat over the back of the chair and tugged his tie loose. “Von Namtzen, wasn’t it?” He was very focused on the buttons of his shirt. Fraser’s back may not have been entirely to Grey, but his posture was closed-off, cold.

Memories of the last time he’d seen Stephan Von Namtzen crashed into his mind unbidden. Being laid out on the man’s bed, the splash of the canals coming in through the windows, the smell of oranges, and the way he’d struggled to walk after. John coughed, slipping out of his own coat. “Yes. Von Namtzen. I haven’t seen him since last year, but he curates a museum in Venice. He’s a good friend. If he’s seen Bree, he’ll let us know.”

Jamie made one of his Scottish noises in his throat, eloquent in its complete lack of words. Sometimes Fraser could convey complex thoughts and emotions through those wordless sounds, but this one was merely acknowledgement. He paused at the last button, hesitated, finally tugging the sleeves off his strong arms, his shoulders stiff and guarded. The buckle of Jamie’s belt jingled as he unfastened it, the rasp of leather slithering through his belt loops echoing through the tiny room. “An’ ye’re sure he’s no’ a sympathizer?”

“Stephan?” A small laugh escaped John’s lips. Of course, Fraser didn’t know the man and couldn’t have known just how ridiculous the thought of Stephan von Namtzen sympathizing with the Nazi cause was. “No, no I’m sure of it. We can trust him.” Grey moved his hands to the button of his trousers and flicked them open. It was a strange thing to do in the company of Fraser with all of these years and heartbreaks between them. But he had a t-shirt on under his shirt and boxers under his trousers. They’d seen each other more naked than that, even before they were together. 

“Good,” Fraser replied, similarly stripped to a white t-shirt and blue boxer shorts, but wrinkled from the oppressively long day. His efforts to keep his eyes averted from John were so casual that they were painfully conspicuous. Without another word, Fraser yanked the covers back and slid into the bed, taking the side closest to the door, his back to the narrow remnants of the mattress. 

He _did_ look. Just a whip-crack of a glance, up and down John’s body. As abruptly as it had happened, Jamie’s blue eyes closed, one arm crooked under his pillow

Grey’s cheeks flushed hot. To be appraised, even momentarily, under Fraser’s gaze still left him weak. But, _God_. He couldn’t think about that now, not when he would be lying beside this man in this small bed in this tiny hotel room in Paris. A town that, in a far-gone life, they’d made love in more times than John Grey could count. 

Stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, John held his breath as he slid in beside Jamie. He did his best not to touch the man but a bed this size was not built for two grown men not to touch. His shoulder skimmed Jamie’s shoulder, his foot the back of Jamie’s calf. “Sorry,” he managed to apologize through a tight throat. 

Jamie gave a dismissive hum that vibrated the creaky bed springs between them. “Nay matter,” he mumbled, sounding unfairly unaffected. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, Jamie.” It had been so long since he’d said those words. 

* * *

A hazy orange sunrise pried Jamie’s eyes open, pounding into his skull and rattling around with the hungover feeling of having traveled a very great distance and losing hours. The groaning early morning sounds of Paris leaked through the drafty window. But the bed was warm, owing in no small part to the sleeping body tucked under Jamie’s arm. It had been so long since Jamie had woken up like this, curled around the hard body of an attractive man. Not since…

But the pounding in Jamie’s head was an urgent knocking at the door, and it was a million years past any reasonable situation in which Jamie should be spooning _half naked_ with John freaking Grey. “Oh _God_ ,” he groaned and scrambled backward. Naturally, he misjudged the size of the bed. And naturally, his legs were tangled in the sheets and he crashed to the very hard, very cold floor. And _of fucking course_ the knocking was insistent. _Get up,_ Jamie thought to himself. A quick glance down at himself confirmed that at least part of himself was motivated for action, and he loosed a string of curses in Gaelic. He’d jarred his hip when he’d fallen out of the bed and it protested as Jamie fought to get his knees under him and stand.

“Fuck, Jamie. What the hell?” John said, groggily. “Who would be knocking on the door at this time of day?” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood to pull on his trousers. “Why are you on the floor?” 

“I thought it might open up and swallow me,” Jamie grumbled, cheeks burning as he hauled himself to his feet and reached for his trousers. “Aye, we hear ye,” he called to whoever the hell was pounding the door down. Remembering where he was, he followed up with a similar sentiment in deeply annoyed French. 

Jamie stomped to the door, slid the deadbolt, and yanked it open, a wicked insult ready to hurl at whoever it was. Seeing that it was a woman, he let the abuse go unsaid, settling for a searing glare instead. “Can I help you, madam?” he said in French.

The woman’s blond hair was swept up in that style that Brianna called victory rolls, perfectly set waves dusting the crisp collar of her jacket. She leaned to one side, tossing a lewd glance carelessly first to John, then to Jamie, arching a slender gold eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something, gentlemen?” the woman asked in a broad Scots accent.

Jamie made a show of checking his wristwatch. “Oh, nay but an hour of sleep. I’ll ask ye again,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Can I help ye, madam?”

“Actually, I think it might be me who can help _you_ ,” she said, her inappropriate facial expression giving way to something almost pretty. “I was the last person to see Brianna Fraser in Paris.”

A bolt of lightning went through Jamie, threw his senses into overdrive. He shot a glance up one side of the hall, then the other, making sure it was empty. Snatching the woman by the arm in a bruising grip, he dragged her into the room, shutting the door behind them with a bang. Jamie blocked the door with his large frame, arms crossed over his chest. The woman looked fearfully from Jamie to John and back, trapped between them.

“Nay, I’m her friend,” she pleaded.

Grey walked up behind Jamie, laid a steady hand on his arm. “Let’s see what she has to say before we throttle her. If you’re not impressed, then I will not stand in your way. Tell us exactly who you are, how you know Brianna, and how you found us?”

Still looking frightened, the woman said, “My name is Geillis Duncan. I met Brianna at Oxford where I was giving a lecture. I’m a researcher of ancient mythology. We struck up a friendship, a shared interest in stone circles, of all things. We tracked down a manuscript, the one ye found at the Bibliotheque Mazarine. I went back for it and a man there mentioned ye. From his description, I kent ye had to be her da.” Her eyes flashed to John. “And ye, the infamous Dr. John Grey, who she so idolized. I tracked ye down from there. It wasna hard. Ye boys should learn to cover yer tracks better, given the situation ye’ve wandered yer way into.”

Jamie didn’t relax his imposing posture. “And what situation is that?”

Ms. Duncan blew out a breath. “Weel, not to put too fine a point on it, but Nazis, Mr. Fraser.”

That plucked at Jamie’s last remaining nerve. “What are ye, implying? If ye’re friends wi’ Bree, then ye kent she’s no Nazi.” His voice was rising along with his temper and only John’s hand on his arm restrained Jamie from strangling Ms. Duncan. “Ye had best tell me everything ye know or I’ll throw ye out yon window.”

Bringing her hands up in a gesture of surrender, Ms. Duncan took a step back, the sensible heel of her strappy pump landing on the corner of the mangled bedsheet. “I ken Bree isna a Nazi. But they took her. From the Bibliotheque.”

“They were in uniform?” Jamie asked, skeptical.

Ms. Duncan shook her head. “Nay, but they spoke German. And I heard one of them say ‘Heil Hitler’ to the one who put Brianna in their car.”

Rage, boiling and red, obscured Jamie’s vision, but his mind ran through all the figures. How many hours to catch up? How much headstart did they have? Did they want Brianna herself or only her research? How many Nazis could he kill with his bare hands at once?

“Do you have any idea where they might be going?” John asked, his focus on Ms. Duncan.

“I can only guess,” she said. “I dinna ken what they want wi’ her. I only ken what _she_ wanted and that was to make ye notice her.” Her eyes widened, stayed intense, and they focused on John.

Grey just blinked. “She could have just… called. I would’ve picked up.” 

The sorrow in John’s voice broke Jamie’s heart to pieces. But there wasn’t time to think about that now. “The lass has got our attention now,” Jamie said. He turned to John. “Ye still think Venice? Now that we ken what’s at stake, do ye still think your contact there will agree to help us?” Ms. Duncan appeared to be telling the truth, but Jamie didn’t want to mention von Namtzen by name in front of her. Sometimes you don’t know your ace in the hole until you’re ready to play it.

“He will,” John said. “And he’s not a Nazi, but he is German. He may have information or contacts that could help us.” 

At last, Jamie unfolded his arms and tapped the fingers of his right hand against his thigh, considering. If Nazis were involved in all this, then they had to be very careful about who they trusted. They wouldn’t do Bree any good if they were both dead. All they knew about Ms. Duncan is what she’d told them, and that wasn’t much. But she _had_ been with Bree in Paris, and she had seen the Nazis take her.

 _Oh God. Oh_ God, _Nazis have Brianna._ The thought clenched his heart in a vice and Jamie shoved down the terror, dragging a smoldering fury comfortably in its place. His fingernails bit into his palms as his hands balled into fists. 

“Ye’re coming wi’ us,” he said to Ms. Duncan. His tone made it clear that she had no choice in the matter. 

Ms. Duncan blinked up at Jamie, mouth opening as if to speak, but closing it again in silence. 

Jamie opened the door and stepped aside, giving her room to pass. “Wait for us in the lobby. We’ll be down in five minutes.” 

“Aye, I will,” Ms. Duncan answered slowly. She kept her green eyes on Jamie as she sidled past him, pressing her back to the wall to avoid touching him. Her heels made no sound on the carpeted hallway, her pencil skirt rustling against her nylons as she hustled to the stairs.

Jamie shut the door and stalked past John without a word or upward glance, focused on his next steps. _Get dressed. Get transportation. Get to Venice. Get to Bulgaria. Get Bree. Do not get dead._ All that fear and worry and rage swirling inside him he bound tightly up, reaching back decades for that distant place he’d lived in during the War. The place where Jamie Fraser found he could be a killer and still look at himself in the mirror. He dressed swiftly but mechanically, his shirt buttons nothing more than necessary steps on his way to Bree.


	4. Chapter 4

**Venice —1939.**

Geillis Duncan sat near the bow of the gondola, her face still and eyes interested as the black hull of the craft sliced through the water. Grey sat beside Jamie, chin angled out toward the water. Afternoon sun glimmered over the dark stubble he’d found no time to shave clean since they departed Boston. It brought to Jamie’s mind their expedition to India, the two of them slicing their way through dense foliage, sleeping in shifts to watch for predators. John’s four-day beard had driven Jamie mad with desire and as they took shelter from a torrential downpour under the cover of tangled tree roots, Jamie had insisted on giving him a close shave with his straight razor. _Else I’ll no’ be able to keep my hands off ye,_ he’d said. Jamie scratched at his own miserably stubbled chin. That was all a lifetime ago, before John had left. 

The air in Venice smelled like the canal, like garlic roasting in an oven, sharpened by an occasional whiff of the sour sardines displayed in fishmongers’ barrels. The guttural melody from the gondolier floated over them, filling the narrow space between tightly-packed buildings, the stone white and the bricks pink from exposure. This place could make a person feel wistful, romantic even. If it weren’t for the damn Nazis, of course. 

A gust whipped over them, rustling Geillis’s hair and setting the gondola to awful rocking. Grey threw a hand up to keep his hat firmly on his head. He turned and spoke to the gondolier in a smooth Italian that sounded more practiced than his French, though Jamie couldn’t be certain as he did not speak the language himself. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did; Jamie was far too busy trying to keep a manful grip on his breakfast. It didn’t matter how big or small a boat was, it was always the same. 

The gondola shifted from its arrow-straight path through the canal and tucked in along the edge, gliding to a stop and being tied off at an inconspicuous dock. 

The gondolier took careful but well-practiced steps from his spot behind them to the dock where, starting with Geillis, he helped each of them disembark. Jamie’s hands shook as he climbed to the dock, steadying himself with a hand on John’s arm to keep from falling into the canal. But Jamie was still thinking about what John’s beard would feel like against his cheek or his thigh, and he snatched his hand away as soon as he was upright.

“It’s just a short walk to von Namtzen’s from here,” John said, his tone soft and carrying more feeling than such a statement would normally require. 

“Good,” Jamie replied, grateful to be out of that damned boat. The train from Paris hadn’t made him sick, thank God. It was just boats and airplanes he couldn’t handle. The rough stones felt blessedly solid under his shoes. “How did ye and von Namtzen come to work together?”

“When I first started working at Harvard, we met through a cooperative research project with the University of Munich. We struck up a working relationship that evolved into a… friendship. He fled to Italy when the Nazis started influencing the universities. Though…” Grey leaned in to whisper to Jamie. “...with Mussolini being so chummy with Adolf Hitler, I have a feeling Stephan will soon be fleeing once again. For now, he lives just there.” John pointed to a gothic building at the end of the street with a dark door that sat crooked on the steps, the result of an unsteady foundation. A light shone through thin curtains on a third floor window.

The building had begun its life as one palatial dwelling, and at some point in the last century had been converted to a collection of flats, each of the three floors serving as a single home. Jamie and Ms. Duncan followed John, who led them inside and up the stairs to the third floor with the air of a man completely familiar with his surroundings. The electric bulbs in sconces along the narrow stairwell hummed and buzzed as they climbed past them. 

John reached a freshly painted door at the top of the stairs and rapped his knuckles sharply against it. This set off the boisterous yipping of what sounded like at least seven small dogs, baying and yapping and apparently intent on tearing the door down. Tiny clawed feet pummeled the other side of the door, not quite as high as Jamie’s knees.

“Those are dogs?” muttered Ms. Duncan. “Right wee monsters, aren’t they?”

A commanding, calm voice spoke in German from the other side of the door, “ _Still, hundchen. Sitz, gut._ ” The dogs, miraculously, quieted immediately, and the door opened to reveal a tall man, easily of a height with Jamie. He wore his blond hair rather short, but missed the mark of the conservative style favored by most Germans. He wore a crisp white shirt, but no tie or jacket, the left sleeve twisted and folded back over the stub of his arm which was missing from above the elbow.

His grey eyes settled on John and his face transformed into an expression of true pleasure. “John,” he said, smiling broadly around the name. He moved to embrace John and then, to Jamie’s absolute shock, kissed John directly on the mouth. Perhaps von Namtzen was just one of those men who kissed all his friends without shame. They did exist, after all. But no. Even as he thought it, Jamie knew that didn’t sit right. It may have been closed-lipped, but it lingered and Jamie knew very well what John looked like when he was affected by a kiss. And _that_ was Dr. John Grey affected by a damn kiss.

Jamie looked beyond von Namtzen’s legs to the pack of dachshunds in the foyer, tails and long bodies waggling with excitement. A couple of the hounds stared up at John with that gleeful energy of recognition. That sealed it then. They weren’t just _friends_ any more than Jamie and John had been just _friends_. Jamie swallowed the taste of bile and tamped down hard on a great many feelings that he couldn’t take the time to examine.

“It’s good to see you again, Stephan.” Grey’s tongue darted out, licking over his lips subtly. He craned his head over his shoulder and waved his hand in a gesture toward Jamie and Ms. Duncan. “This is my good friend, Jamie Fraser, and our acquaintance Ms. Geillis Duncan. I wish I could say this was just a social call, but we actually require your help with something.”

“Why, John…” Stephan looked at John Grey as if he knew the man well enough to read truth in his face beyond what was being spoken. “What is it? What has happened? You know I will help you however I am able. Please, everyone. Come in.”

Von Namtzen stepped out of the way, then gave another string of German commands at his dachshunds. “Do not mind them. They are all bark, no bite, as they say.” He took several steps back, his large thumb brushing across Grey’s hand as he shut his door. The touch could have been an accident, but it wasn’t. Jamie felt certain. 

As they continued down the hall, the yapping only grew louder and more incessant. When von Namtzen stepped in with his dogs, allowing them to swarm at his feet like cod around a fat worm, they quieted. “It is all right,” he said, with an air of formal command. “They shall be calm so long as I am around.” He nodded to the arrangement of furniture set before an ancient, cracked fireplace. “Take a seat. Are you thirsty? I would be happy to bring you something to drink, but then…” Stephan looked down at his dogs.

“I’ll get drinks,” Grey said easily, smiling at von Namtzen. “To avoid your guests being devoured by tiny mouths.” He leaned down and scratched the smallest of the pups on the head.

“Thank you, John. That may be for the best.”

John left the sitting room with absolute confidence in his errand, and Jamie stared at his retreating back. Definitely his back and not the way his trousers stretched over his arse.

Ms. Duncan eyed a red haired dog as it sniffed her shoe, not particularly afraid, but certainly not enjoying the abundance of wagging tails and wet noses. "Nice doggy," she murmured, clutching her pocketbook to her stomach and easing herself awkwardly onto a sofa. Jamie took the wingback chair as far away from von Namtzen as the room allowed and bent forward to offer his hand for the dogs' inspection. He couldn't help but smile at the wee beasties sniffing his knuckles, their whiskers tickling his skin. 

If he could keep his attention on the dogs he wouldn't have to think about John and von Namtzen. He wouldn't have to think about how much John would have liked to be fucked on a heap of blankets in front of that fireplace on a cold night. And if he focused on the dogs, he wouldn't have to think about the affection between John and von Namtzen, about seeing them kiss. He didn't think it was love, not the kind that Jamie and John had once shared, so long ago. Before John had left. Before John had walked out on something magical for...whatever he'd had with the German. 

Dr. Grey reentered the room, stealing the attention of von Namtzen’s creatures for a swift moment. He had four bottles of German beer, two clutched in each hand, caps removed. He passed them out to Ms. Duncan, then Jamie and finally to von Namtzen, who let his whole hand cup Grey’s as he took the bottle. Grey took a long swallow, then said, “I best cut to the chase then. Jamie’s daughter, Brianna, has been kidnapped by the Nazis, and we’re hoping you could help.”

Von Namtzen replied, cursing sharply in German before saying, “Fucking Nazi bastards. How old is your daughter? What do they want with her?”

The acidic outburst was oddly comforting. At least John had been right about von Namtzen. "Twenty-three," Jamie answered. "And we dinna ken. We think it may have something to do with her research about ancient stone circles." A chocolate brown dachshund put her front paws on Jamie's knee, and he scratched her ears, finding some comfort in the soft fur. "But we think they are taking her to Bulgaria."

"I heard the Nazis who took Brianna say something about _zeitreise_?" Ms. Duncan said, pronouncing the German word awkwardly and with a very poor accent. 

Jamie fixed the woman with a withering glare. "And when did ye plan on mentioning that, Ms. Duncan?" He didn't bother concealing the anger in his voice.

Ms. Duncan shrank back from his gaze. "I-I dinna ken it was important, I'm sorry." Her nervous eyes bounced between the three men. "What is _zeitreise_? Is it a city?"

"It means time travel," von Namtzen said and turned to Grey. “I believe I recall some scribblings by that _Dummkopf_ Childe. Did he not get it into his head that there was a stone circle in Bulgaria?”

“I believe so, and of all his ridiculous notions, that may actually be the one with the most credibility. But time travel… I’ve seen some strange things in my day.” John looked over at Jamie with a sly smile. “Those zombies in Jamaica for one. Though there was a rational explanation for that, and for whatever takes place at these stone circles, I’m certain there’s a rational explanation too. Time travel, though. Utter bollocks.”

Von Namtzen pressed his lips together. “I’m certainly inclined to agree, John. The Nazi’s would be less so. Adolf and his ilk find themselves bizarrely fascinated with the occult.”

Grey nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve heard as much, but even still, what would they want with time travel and what the hell did Brianna find that made them so sure she could assist them in their foolish quest?”

“Brianna was working on a paper,” Ms. Duncan spoke, voice small and uncertain. “It had something a’do wi’ the Orkneys though.” She paused and worried her bottom lip with her teeth in what might have been a distracting way under different circumstances

Jamie arched an eyebrow at her. “Out wi’ it, lass. Say it all or say nothing.”

Ms. Duncan straightened her back and squared her shoulders, looking down her nose at Jamie. “She was writing a paper about strange artifacts found near a stone circle in the Orkneys. One of which was a set of RAF identification tags that looked to be at least two hundred years old when they were found. Last year.”

Jamie’s eyes went wide and he found a similar expression mirrored on the other two men. “Has this Childe found his stones in Bulgaria yet?”

“Nay, no’ Childe or the Nazis. But Brianna. She thinks she has and I ken her well enough to believe there’s something to it.” Ms. Duncan pursed her lips, gaze casting like a shadow over John. “Ye asked why she didna call ye, Dr. Grey. I ken she planned to. Thought it would… break the ice, aye?”

John’s mouth gaped, then shut harshly before he breathed through his nose. “Did she tell you then? Where exactly in Bulgaria she thought the stones to be?”

“She wouldna tell even me that. Yer lass is a tight lipped one when she wants to be.”

“If she sent us her journal,” John continued. “She must’ve known the Nazis were after her sometime while she was in Paris.”

Ms. Duncan’s eyes widened. “She sent ye her journal?” 

“You…” came von Namtzen’s slow voice. “... did not know that she sent her journal? You were with her, were you not?”

“Aye, aye.” Ms. Duncan pursed her lips. “But not always. A free spirit, that lass.”

A thought struck Jamie and he reached into his inner coat pocket for the little journal and pulled it out, along with his small wire rimmed reading glasses. He perched his glasses on his nose and flipped the journal open, thumbing through it. He’d managed to sneak in a quick skim on the train and something was nagging at him. Something scribbled in the margins in a rushed version of Bree’s handwriting. _There._ “Primorsko,” he said, jabbing his index finger at the page. “Isn’t that on the Black Sea?”

Von Namtzen nodded. “Yes, it is. I believe there have been some traces of Thracian tribes discovered there, but no circles that I am aware of.”

For the first time in well over a week, Jamie felt like he was on the right track. “But it may be worth a try, aye?”

“Yes, I think so,” John said, rising from his chair. A dachshund scurried up and nipped at his heel. Von Namtzen called it off with a sharp whistle. “If it was important enough for Bree to mention it in her journal, it’s worth looking into.”

Von Namtzen made a guttural sound in his throat, then tapped a finger to his strong chin. “But, and excuse me, I do not know your daughter well, but if she believes the stones to be in Primorkso, would she lead the Nazis there?”

“Fuck. Stephan has a point. Even if Bree is right and the stone circle is there, that doesn’t mean she will be. I reckon if she can lead them off course, then she will. What do you think, Jamie?” 

Jamie drummed his fingers on his leg, attracting the curious nose of the same chocolate hound he’d pet earlier. “Aye, I think she would, if she could. But we have no idea where she would lead them.” He closed the journal and gripped it until his knuckles turned white. He sighed and yanked his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a fast approaching headache. “She sent _you_ the name Primorkso. It’s as good a place to start as any.”

Grey blinked, making the face he always made when he was thinking through something. “Yes, she did, and it’s all we have to go on… for now.” He turned his attention to Stephan. “I know this is a lot to ask, but I was wondering if you had any connections with the Nazi party. Anyone who isn’t sold on their rhetoric that might be obliged to give us information about where they’ve taken Brianna and what they have planned for her?”

Von Namtzen’s jaw tightened and his gaze roved between Ms. Duncan and Jamie. “I’m sorry, but I do not know them and I cannot risk them. But John, I have something that might help. Someone, though I can only tell you in the strictest of confidence. I must have your word.”

“You have it,” Grey said, an intense focus on von Namtzen, their ability to communicate with their eyes evident. 

Von Namtzen stood, brushing dog hair from his trousers. He approached Grey, cupping his elbow with his hand. “If you’ll follow me to my room, we can discuss it there.” He spat a German command and the dogs scrambled to his feet. With a hand still on Grey’s elbow, von Namtzen took his dogs and John away.

Jamie watched them leave the room, stared after them as their footsteps and scampering paws disappeared down the hall. He blew a frustrated breath out through his nose and stood, pacing the narrow rug in front of the fireplace. They’d come here on John’s word that von Namtzen was trustworthy, but now that they needed the German’s trust in return, it wasn’t enough? What sort of relationship was theirs, anyway? God damn German.

“So,” Ms. Duncan began, drawing Jamie’s eyes to her. Now that the dogs were gone, she was more relaxed, her hands clasped around one shapely knee. “What do ye suppose they’re really doing in there?”

Jamie narrowed his eyes at her. “I dinnae take yer meaning, Ms. Duncan.”

She waved a hand in flippant dismissal. “Nay matter. Dinna fash, Mr. Fraser. I’m sure Dr. Grey is explaining how trustworthy ye are right now.”

Jamie hummed in annoyance and turned his back on Ms. Duncan. She shut up, thank Christ. Gripping the fireplace mantle in both hands, he tamped all those complicated emotions back down. He had to get Bree back, had to see her safe. He could indulge in a proper breakdown when the danger was behind them. Blowing out the breath he’d been holding through this exercise, Jamie glanced up at the mantle. Next to a small dog collar, the reflection of light on glass caught his eye. It was a framed photograph, von Namzten and one of his dachshunds, smiling down at John.

_Son of a bitch._

“I think it’s considered perfectly normal in some parts of Germany for men to kiss their friends on the mouth,” Ms. Duncan mused.

The dam holding back Jamie’s temper cracked, but he held it in place. Barely. “Shut yer trap, aye?” he snapped, spinning on his heel and following John and that bloody German down the hall. Walking quietly wasn’t the same as sneaking. But he did walk quietly, and peered through the cracked door at the end of the hall.

That fucking German had his one intact arm wrapped around John’s back, holding him close. And John, _that bastard_ , had _both_ of his arms around von Namtzen. This was not a kiss between friends. That was how John used to kiss _Jamie_ , and that subtle shift in his breath was damned familiar too. 

The dam broke. Crumbled into a million pieces.

“Jesus Christ,” were the only words he could get out. If Jamie took one step forward he’d punch one of them in the face and he wasn’t sure which one. He executed an about-face and stalked toward the door and the stairs.

“Jamie,” Grey called out, jogging toward him. “Jamie, please. Stop. Don’t bloody run away. Talk to me.”

Jamie didn’t stop, wouldn’t turn around. He didn’t know what would happen if he looked at John. “There’s nothing to say, John,” he answered, flinging the door open and launching himself toward the stairs. Jamie would just have to figure out how to find Bree himself. “I shouldna brought you into this. I’ll manage on my own.” He rounded the landing on the second floor, not giving a damn that his heavy footfalls rattled the plaster walls.

“For God’s sake, you arse.” John rushed after him and latched onto his arm. Then he flung himself around and used his whole body to block Jamie from running. “You don’t get to act like this. Like we’re still fucking together. Not when your wife reappeared out of nowhere and suddenly I was nothing more than your ‘friend from the army.’ Did you ever tell her about us? Or were you too much of a coward.” 

Jamie yanked his arm away. “Dinna call me a coward when ye were the one who left. Ye ran so fast there wasna a point. And ye didna even look back, did ye? It got complicated and ye _bolted_ , ye wee bastard. What in God’s name did ye expect me to do?”

“Complicated? You call hiding me from your wife who was supposed to be dead just ‘complicated?’ Fuck you. What did you expect _me_ to do? You should be thanking me for saving you the trouble of cutting your dirty little secret loose. Or did you expect me to stay? Sit around waiting for you like some pathetic dog so I could suck your cock when you got bored with your wife.”

Before he realized what he was doing, Jamie shoved John hard into the wall. “I didna ken what to do! And ye didna give me the chance to figure it out. Ye left me with a wife who barely kent who I was and a heartbroken lass who didna understand why ye were gone. And I couldna”

A pair of automobiles squealed to a halt outside the building and voices shouted in German. Jamie whirled around to see a khaki sleeve with a red arm band through the narrow window near the front door. 

“Nazis,” Jamie said, quite unnecessarily. “We can take them. There canna be that many.” Jamie’s blood was still boiling, but at least he’d get to go a few rounds with some damn Nazis.

John snorted and growled low in his throat, “Take them? Christ, man. We’re outgunned.” His hand twitched towards the gun he kept beneath his belt. “We need to hide. Now,” he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed Jamie’s wrist and tried to yank him into the shadows. 

Jamie held his ground. "We've gotten out of worse scrapes than this before." His knuckles popped in his balled fists. His eyes were glued to the door, waiting. Jamie slid his left hand into his jacket, closing it on the grip of the pistol in its shoulder holster. He could probably drop three before the fighting even started.

“When we were twenty years younger. Maybe.” John pulled uselessly against the much bigger Jamie Fraser. “And never against _Nazis.”_ He tried again and Jamie wouldn’t budge. “For the love of God, you thick-headed Scottish ox.” He latched onto Jamie’s shirt and yanked him down until their mouths smashed together, and he stepped back quickly, taking advantage of Jamie’s shock to pull him into a custodial closet and lock the door behind them.

That kiss was… _so close_ to good. The urgent press of John’s lips against his, the familiar crush, his body remembered this, wanted more. The bitter taste of the rich lager they’d drank, the rasp of John’s beard stubble against his own bristly chin. It was almost the kind of frantic kiss they might have shared before leaping from some cliff to escape ridiculous peril. Almost.

But then Jamie’s brain joined the party and he recognized the peppery cologne scent and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in the dark closet. All the hurt and anger and ugly green jealousy came raging back to mind. “You smell like him,” Jamie said, not bothering to keep the disdain out of his voice. 

Outside their hiding place, the front door slammed open and the foyer was flooded with the sound of heavy boots quick-marching up the stairs. He put his eye to the crack between the door and its frame, straining to see into the foyer. “They’re going upstairs,” Jamie hissed back to John. “What was yer brilliant plan after ye got me in here, aye? Jump out an’ yell ‘surprise?’ Hope they didna kill Ms. Duncan and yer von Namtzen on sight?”

“He’s not my…” John sighed, voice low. “Yes, yes and you know why? Because whenever I’m around you, I go mad. I can’t see an inch past you. I’ll help Geillis Duncan and Stephan von Namtzen, but not if it means seeing you dead.” 

This was _really_ not the time for this conversation, impending Nazi attack or no. And Jamie was still so hurt that he couldn’t stop himself from saying The Wrong Thing. “Oh, aye? Well one couldna tell from the last sixteen years.” 

There was a horrific cacophony of enraged barking, two sharp reports of a handgun firing, and a woman’s terrified scream. Jamie rested his hand on the door knob, watching through the crack though he could see precious little. Thunder on the stairs, more barking, swearing in German, the woman’s muffled cries of fear. “ _Merde_ ,” Jamie hissed. “If we’re going to make a move, it has to be now.”

Grey pulled the gun out of his belt and shoved himself beside Jamie. He stuck his hands into Jamie’s coat where he kept Brianna’s journal and yanked it out. “Fine. But stop acting like there was any goddamn chance you wouldn’t have chosen Claire.” John threw open the door and stepped outside.

“Oi, you stupid Nazi pieces of shit.” He held up the diary. “This what you’re looking for?”

“Shite,” Jamie swore, hearing a crisp order in German to fire and shoved John to the side. He cleared the space a heartbeat before a shot hit the plaster wall. “Christ, and ye call _me_ reckless!” Jamie brought his own gun to bear on the shooter and squeezed off two quick shots, hitting the Nazi in the chest. The Nazi crumpled, his body falling headfirst down the stairs. 

The barking had redoubled, accompanied by truly impressive snarling. One of the Nazis swore in German and fell down the stairs, pursued by three enraged dachshunds who tore into his shins with their sharp teeth.

“Reckless, maybe,” John said. “But not two decades out of practice.” Another Nazi had popped up like a hideous weed and Grey’s bullet was between his eyes in a near instant. 

Stephen von Namtzen was engaged in a battle of his own. He nailed a Nazi in the face with a quick elbow, then turned in time to strike the fascist bastard across the face with the same arm. The Nazi dropped his weapon and von Namtzen snatched it off the ground, fired it up into his belly and kicked him down the stairs for good measure. 

A woman’s scream pierced through the air, then was muffled. Ms. Duncan thrashed in the grasp of the single remaining Nazi. John bolted forward. Geillis Duncan was a shield over the Nazi’s body, and John couldn’t get a clean shot. The Nazi hurtled down the steps with Geillis cluctched in front of him, stepping over two bodies. He fired off a bullet and John bellowed, then collapsed down on one knee. 

“Go,” John shouted back at Jamie and von Namtzen, clutching his thigh. “Stop him!” 

Von Namtzen tore out the door in hot pursuit, his acquired pistol held at the ready in his right hand. Jamie changed course and slid to the floor next to John. “Where?” he demanded, moving John’s hands away from his leg. The leg of John’s trousers was darkening with blood around a tear in the fabric. Jamie got his index fingers inside the tear and pulled sharply, exposing the wound completely. A chunk of flesh was missing, on the outside of John’s thigh. “Och, ye lucky son of a bitch,” Jamie said, digging into his pocket for his handkerchief. He jammed the wadded cloth against the gunshot wound, grateful it was so far from the femoral artery. 

Grey winced, putting his hand over Jamie’s where it was keeping pressure on the wound. “Go. Help Stephan. I’ll be fine.”

John’s palm was warm and sweating over Jamie’s, stained with his blood. He was right, of course. John _would_ be fine, but everything inside Jamie demanded that he not leave his side. And von Namtzen was outside, alone and still outnumbered. And they might need Ms. Duncan to find Bree. In a motion that was pure gut reflex, Jamie kissed John on the cheek, and darted out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An injured Dr. John Grey and Jamie close in on the next breadcrumb that they hope will lead them to Brianna.

Dr. John Grey was lying in Stephan Von Namtzen’s bed and not for the first time. Though the last time he was here, any soreness or stiffness he felt was not located in his thigh. Grey shifted uneasily between the sheets, memories of events that had taken place here still vivid. It wasn’t easy to forget the biggest cock you’d ever had. Especially not when it was attached to a man whose company John so thoroughly enjoyed. But there wasn’t romance between them. At another time in his life, he may have thought there was, but not anymore. John Grey knew exactly what romance felt like, what love felt like. And it was sitting in front of him, worry lines on a handsome face, discussing something with Stephan von Namtzen in clipped, hushed tones.

Grey reached down and touched his aching thigh. _Damn Nazis._ And now they had Geillis Duncan too. This day had just been one disaster after another. First, he’d kissed Stephan back, which he never should’ve done, except why the hell not? He and Jamie had nothing between them anymore. Second, that stupid fight with Jamie, where he’d said things he shouldn’t have ever said, even if he meant every word. And third, the Nazis. The damn fucking Nazis.

He groaned and tried to slide out of bed on his good leg. “We shouldn’t be wasting time. If they know we’re here, they’ll send reinforcements. Stephan, you shouldn’t stay either. Is there anyone you can stay with for a while? Or anywhere safe you can go?”

Stephan stood from his chair and walked over to help support John. He hesitated to lean on him, but he was still somewhat lightheaded from the blood loss. “There is, but you’re hurt, John. It might be best if you came with me. I have contacts in Yugoslavia, who may be willing to assist Mr. Fraser on his quest for his daughter.”

Jamie stood on the other side of John, bracing his elbow with one hand, the other held out in front of Grey like Fraser thought he’d keel over at any moment. “He’s right. Ye need to take care of yerself. I’ll get Bree and come find ye. I dinna want to leave ye, John. But von Namtzen will take care of ye.” Fraser’s face was more open than it had been in days, and the truth of his words was evident. As was the pain it caused him to say it.

John appreciated the sentiment, more than he could possibly say, but there wasn’t a chance in heaven, hell, or anywhere in between that he wasn’t going with Fraser. “I’ll take care of myself the way I always have, even when you can’t bloody see it, by taking care of you _and_ our little girl.”

Von Namtzen opened his mouth to speak, but Grey cut him off, “And I won’t hear another word about it.” 

A smile, carrying some fond mixture of gratitude and worry, lighted Jamie’s face. “Ye are a right stubborn arse when ye’ve got yer mind set on something.”  
  
Von Namtzen sighed in resignation and left Grey in Jamie’s care. “I will get my car.”

* * *

At least driving didn’t make Jamie sick. They had that to be grateful for as Jamie sped across the countryside. The hills and trees passed by them in green blurs as they ignored quite the list of traffic laws. Grey had been sipping _schnapps_ in the passenger seat nearly non-stop to keep the pain at bay. His head was pressed to the warm window and the rumble of tires over the rough road lulled him.

“You remember that weekend in Peru?” John asked, his voice drowsy from the drink. “Two years after the war or so. Those traders that stole practically an entire gallery of Incan artifacts from the museum in Lima?” Dr. Grey, Jamie at his side, had traveled there to conduct a lecture when they’d found themselves hunting down the priceless artifacts before they were auctioned off to the highest bidders.

“Aye, I do,” Jamie said, smiling, his eyes on the road. He swerved into the opposite lane to pass a truck laden with potatoes. “As I recall, ye pulled off quite the bait and switch. Not only did ye convince them that ye had the actual holy grail, but ye got them to meet ye to make the trade. And the switch was that instead of the cup of Christ, I started a fight and we beat them to a pulp.” Fraser chuckled, the carefree sound at odds with their current situation. “And wee Tom Byrd scampered about tying them up as we dropped them.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand. “I broke two fingers that day.”

Grey laughed, the memory still so clear in his mind. “Thanks to those brave fingers, we got the antiquities and they got God knows how long in a Peruvian prison.” For all he knew, they were still there, wondering why in the hell they’d bought such a ridiculous story. _Greed,_ he thought. Greed made even the wisest and most careful of men utter fools. “I can’t remember if I ever told that story in one of my books, but if I haven’t, remind me to add it to the next one.” 

"I will." They lapsed into an easy silence for a handful of miles. “Do ye remember Cairo? And the merchant ye asked for directions? Except yer Arabic was so bad ye accidentally agreed to marry his daughter?” Fraser gave a hearty laugh at the memory. “And _then_ ended up in a duel with the bastard.”

“Christ, yes. I showed up to the duel with a fucking rapier and meanwhile, he’s whirling two massive swords at me.” John shook his head, throwing back another gulp of whisky. “Still, can’t believe you shot him. Never even let me prove my superior swordsmanship… I wonder if we’re still wanted men in Egypt. I never did try to go back.”

“That mob seemed rather insistent that we stay gone. And of course I shot him, clotheed. Ye think I’d let him run ye through?” Fraser’s laughter faded. “Nevermind that I was mad wi’ jealousy, ken. It didna matter that I kent we’d sort it out.” Jamie shot a quick glance at Grey. “I never could stand the thought of ye with someone who wasna me.”

“I remember,” John said, a warmth pouring over him hotter than any whisky. “The moment we got out of Egypt, you had me on my back and made sure I never forgot.” As soon as the words were out, Grey regretted it. It was too much, but the liquor was loosening his lips.

Jamie took a deep breath in and out through his nose. “That never changed,” he said, voice barely audible over the sound of the engine. “And when Claire came back… I didna ken how to love ye both.”

John opened his mouth. He had an answer for this. He’d had an answer for sixteen years. _I know. And so I played the villain so you wouldn’t have to. And Claire... Claire was Bree’s mother and we’d promised, the both of us, to always do what was best for our girl. I was just… just keeping that promise._ Grey’s eyes grew heavy and they closed, his mouth too. The strong grip of alcohol pulled him under, unsure whether he’d said any of those words at all. 

* * *

**Primorsko - 1939**

Jamie was loath to wake John. He'd fallen into a fitful doze from the _schnapps_ and slumped against the window for the remainder of the drive to Primorsko. Jamie had struggled to keep his attention on the road, glancing across the leather bench every few minutes. Periodically, John would stir or groan in his sleep, face pale. Jamie had reached over to take his hand, afraid John would wake up and snatch his hand away, angry. But the touch had quieted his friend and let him rest.

Now, Jamie drove their borrowed car into the car park of a small but modern church. Fishing gingerly in John's coat, he retrieved Brianna's journal, flipping through it. He scanned the pages of her sweeping cursive handwriting, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Ran his index finger over the margins, eyes scanning for clues. He focused on the task, countered the storm of fear and worry with logic and determined thoughts he wished Bree could hear. 

_Stay strong, lass. Da and Uncle John will find ye. We'll be there soon. Where are you? I ken ye left us bread crumbs. Where?_

_There._ Seven or eight pages behind the hastily scrawled _Primorsko_ , Bree had scribbled sideways on the inner margin near the binding. The name of a church in Sozopol. A thrill shot through Jamie. Another bread crumb. One step closer to Bree.

"John," he said, shaking Grey's shoulder with one hand. "John, can ye wake up, man? I ken where Bree led the Nazis." He started the engine and tore out of the carpark. 

John jostled awake, blinking. He winced, then rubbed fingers on his forehead. “What? Where? How?”

Jamie thrust the open journal into John's hands. "Our lass left us another clue." He turned the car north and jammed down on the gas, shifting too fast and abusing the clutch. "The Holy Virgin Eastern Orthodox Church in Sozopol. It's no' far. Isna Sozopol built over the ruins of a Thracian village?"

At those words, John perked up, springing to life despite the way the after effects of the alcohol were obviously paining him. History, archaeology, all of it, had always been as the most powerful drug to Dr. John Grey. “There are the rumors, that’s the case. It’s never been proven, but as well as—at least by the standards of men looking to travel through time. I mentioned it in more than one of my books. Brianna would know about it and if the Nazis were to do their own research they’d see it as well.” John snatched his hat off the dashboard and settled it on his head. “You said it’s not far. How fast can we get there?”

The road opened up from narrow town streets to a straight coastal byway, the Black Sea stretching to the horizon through John's window. He glanced down at the speedometer, the needle digging in hard. "Twenty minutes? God bless von Namtzen and his appreciation for fast cars."

* * *

**Sozopol — 1939**

The Holy Virgin Eastern Orthodox church was an unassuming structure. The edifice was weathered stone, the lowest rows remarkably ancient. The sun climbed high in the clear blue sky, glinting off the stones like millions of tiny jewels. There was no lot, so Jamie pulled the car onto the side of the road under the shade of a flowering tree. He left the keys in the ignition in case they needed to make a quick getaway. 

The church, of course, wasn't totally deserted. A young priest met them, eyes going wide with surprise when he saw Jamie's red hair. He said something in Bulgarian, which neither Jamie nor John understood. 

Jamie held out a hand. "Do ye speak English, Father?"

The priest stopped short. "Yes, but it is bad. I can help you?"

"Have ye seen a young woman? Tall. Wi' red hair like mine?" Jamie asked, gesturing at his own head.

Recognition brightened the priest's face and he nodded enthusiastically. " _Da!_ I did! Yesterday. She was here with others."

“Others?” John spoke up. “What others? What did they look like? I know it may be hard to remember, but we’d appreciate it as much detail as you can remember.”

“They were… soldiers. Red armbands. Nazis, _da_ ?” the priest cleared his throat. “One of them. He was their leader. I think. Dark eyes. Very cold. Never let go of the girl’s arm. She called him... Randall?” He nodded. “ _Da_ , that was it. Randall.”

“Randall?” John spat through his teeth, jaw clenching. His face turned a furious red. “Frank Randall. It’s been twenty years and we still can’t rid ourselves of that parasite.”

Jamie suppressed the first three sentences that came to mind out of respect for the church and the priest, even if he wouldn't have understood the Gaelic. At last he settled with, "Aye and it's the last time he troubles anyone, I swear it. I'm going to kill him on sight."

After a pause, during which the priest apparently translated their outbursts, his eyes went impossibly wide.

"Father, that lass is my daughter and she is in great danger. Do you know where they went?"

The priest frowned and shook his head. "No, I am sorry." His expressive round face lighted and he snapped the fingers of one hand. "But I can show you what they saw. Come, please." 

He turned on his heel and led them to the front of the church and through a stone archway on the left. It led them to a narrow stair that curved downward. The walls were lined with lit candles, their shoes scraping over the stone steps as they descended. 

At last, the stairs ended in a small stone chamber, one wall covered floor to ceiling in faded, carved runes. In the center of the wall was etched a pictographic representation of a stone circle. 

Jamie stared, mouth agape. 

The priest stood near the stairs, not approaching the carved wall. He offered John a lantern from the wall and took a step backward, making the sign of the cross backward, in the Eastern way. "The man Randall made your daughter to read the carvings," he said. 

"Is it Thracian?" Jamie asked John. "Can ye read it?"

John tilted his hat back out of his eyes and knelt down closer to the wall, holding the lantern in front of the stone to illuminate it. He brushed a layer of dirt away from the letters and squinted. “My Thracian is somewhat rusty, but I believe I can translate some of it. There’s something here about two hundred years. I can’t tell if it’s two hundred years ago or two hundred years from now… I’m not familiar with this particular word, but other than that, I’m certain of it. It’s giving us the location of a stone circle. That word is near and there is the Thracian word for the Black Sea. So it’s… on the coast.” John’s eyes narrowed, the lantern light glinting off the sweat on his cheekbones. “No. It’s near the coast, but not _on_ the coast. The stone circle is some ways inland. Yes. North and inland.”

“That is what it says?” the priest inquired, lips flipped into an exaggerated frown. “That is not what the girl said. Not at all.”

John pivoted, then stood, lantern still dangling from his hand as he looked at Jamie. “Do you have any idea if Bree can read Thracian? Because I am as certain as I can be in my translation.”

Jamie's shoulders slumped and he shook his head, uncertain. "I dinna ken. Maybe. Probably. Christ, I wish I knew for sure." He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to think. They were so close. _So close_. "Father, do ye remember what she did say?"

The priest shook his head. "I am sorry, it was in English. I have no mind for it."

Frustration, worry, fear, all threatened to explode out of Jamie at once. He turned to ask the priest again, try a different approach, when a flash of dull green shoved into a chink in the rock caught is eye. He was at the wall in two strides and yanked the fabric out. It was a torn scrap of Mackenzie tartan, the same as they had found in Paris, and it made a crinkling, papery sound in his hand. Bree's scarf. “John,” he breathed, all the voice he could muster with his heart hammering away in his throat. Jamie unfolded the scrap of paper. All it said was _Nepal_.

John took the scrap from Jamie then read down at it. “Nepal?” He looked over at Jamie. “I think a flight to Nepal might kill you. Unless…” his eyes narrowed. “Oh my God. Pardon me, Father. I think… Nepal, Jamie. It’s a reference to one of my books. Do you remember? The bandits who kidnapped us. Because they wanted us to find, what was it, magical yeti bones?” A big smile spread across John’s face and he grabbed Jamie’s sleeve with his free hand. “Nepal, Jamie.” He clapped him on the shoulder. 

_Nepal_. They had been to Nepal, Jamie remembered that much. Some of the details were fuzzy because… "Aye, I remember the bandits and the snow. God, the snow." Then it hit him. "We convinced them that ye could only see them if ye were blind drunk. And we led them away from the village and over a frozen lake with a cask of...whatever it was they had, awful raw stuff. Where we drank them under the table and left them tied to a tree." Jamie gripped John's shoulder tight, feeling them closing in on the solution. "The sea. There's an island just off the coast, I saw it from the road. She must be leading them there. Clever lass!"

“We need to go now. Maybe we’ll have a chance to catch up to them,” John said, then turned his attention to the priest. “Thank you. Truly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now at the halfway point (by chapter count)! See you Wednesday!


	6. Chapter 6

For the record, Dr. John Grey and his partner-not-in-crime, Jamie Fraser, had not stolen this skiff. They’d merely borrowed it without express permission and with every intent to return it to its owner when they no longer needed it for their rescue mission. The not-stolen skiff sped through the water, the fresh smell of salt and seaweed closing in around them. To keep himself alert, John had stopped drinking, which meant the pain of his leg had come back in full force, enough that he could no longer put pressure on it without shrieking. And Jamie had hurled the entire contents of his stomach into the ocean at least three times since they’d left shore. 

The island in the distance came more and more into focus as they approached it through low lying clouds.

“Look.” John winced. “I think I see another boat. Just there, on the shore.”

Jamie wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. It hadn't been a long trip, but the Black Sea was choppy and tossed their wee boat. He squinted into the distance where John pointed. Sure enough, another boat, a little bigger than their commandeered craft, was moored along a narrow beach. "Aye. I dinna see anyone though. But there's tracks leading inland. It's no’ a large island. They canna be far."

“If it’s just some fisherman or the like, I will be right put out.” John gripped his injured leg and repositioned it. 

When they came upon the island, they settled the boat along the shore where reeds had grown up in the still water of the cove. If the skiff were camouflaged by the plants, it might keep them from alerting Bree’s captors and give them the element of surprise. 

Stifling a groan of pain, Grey forced himself from the boat, boots sinking into sticky mud. He limped, hissing again, and held out a hand to Jamie. “You’re looking quite green there, Fraser.”

Jamie swallowed his rising gorge as he climbed out of the skiff and steadied himself on blessedly still ground. “Aye,” he agreed, not bothering to hide the misery in his voice. “And ye’re pale as a fish belly.” He drew his pistol from his shoulder holster and started up the beach into the scrim of trees. “But we’re the only hope Bree has, so we’ll have to be enough.”  _ Please, God, let us be enough _ .

As they made their way into the scraggly trees, the wind carried the sound of voices, speaking in German. One with a familiar English accent. Jamie shot John a look, eyebrows raised. Randall. 

Drawing closer, they were able to make out a handful of tents, pitched in a semicircle. Jamie gave John another look, combining it with hand signals to indicate Jamie’s intent to make a move. He didn’t wait for John’s nod. Jamie kept low, the wind and German chatter covering the minute sound of his footsteps as he sidled around the nearest tent. 

A Nazi stood to the side of the structure, lighting a cigarette. Jamie crept up behind him, wrapped his right arm around his slender chest from behind and jammed the barrel of his pistol under the bastard’s chin. “ _ Gibt mir deine Pistole _ ,” Jamie hissed. “ _ Langsam _ .” The Nazi swallowed hard and drew his gun slowly from his holster, offering it up handle-first. “ _ Jezt geh _ ,” Jamie said, shoving him deeper into the camp.

“Frank Randall,” Jamie shouted just as more Nazis became aware of his presence. “I ken ye’re here, ye son of a bitch. Show yer’self.”

John gripped his own gun tight in his hand, his body stiff, every inch of him awake and aware of even the smallest movement. Ready to strike. “And he’s not alone, either.” John called out. “And if you’re looking for someone who can read Thracian, I’m right fucking here.”

Moments later, the sound of boots falling on leaves and branches swallowed up the other noises of the island. A familiar but aged face appeared in the filtered light, this time donning the sharp grey of a Nazi uniform. He had a rope grasped tight and with an ugly grunt, he yanked on the thing, bringing with it a flash of brilliant red—Brianna.

It took every ounce of will that Jamie possessed not to rush forward and wrap his arms around his daughter. His eyes burned with relief and redoubled fear, but Jamie shoved it all down. He slid into that space from the War, into the space where he could kill and be okay with it. Jamie was in the cold place, the place that let him climb over rotting muddy trenches and charge across No Man’s Land with nothing but his rifle and his friend at his side. 

“Da,” Brianna said, voice sounding choked and frightened, but determined. 

Frank Randall would not live through this. 

“Let her go, Randall,” Jamie said. His pistol was currently trained on the Nazi shielding his body, but he had nine rounds in the magazine and no qualms about shooting every fucking facist in this camp. 

“I think not,” said Randall. “Drop your weapon, Mr. Fraser, or matters will become… violent.”

“Ye’ll no’ lay another finger on her, do ye hear me, Randall?” Jamie called in response. He might be able to kill the Nazi in his arms and take out Randall before Bree was harmed. Maybe. “Let the lass go an’ I’ll kill ye quick to save  _ der Führer _ the trouble, aye?”

“Why, Mr. Fraser. Surely you don’t expect me to give you the new foremost expert on stone circles when we are so close to our goal?” Randall’s voice grated along Jamie’s nerves and it was only the pistols he saw trained on his daughter that stopped him from unleashing total chaos on the camp and everyone in it. 

“What do ye want, Randall?” Jamie called out, jamming the pistol hard under the Nazi’s chin, making the bastard suck in a breath and lurch forward, but Jamie kept an iron grip on him. “Surely ye must ken by now that she doesna have her journal.”

“Her journal…? Why would I want her journal when I can have the real thing. Besides, it’s clear you haven’t read it, at least not all of it. If you have, you haven’t understood it. The stone circles require a sacrifice.” A hideous grin spread across his face. “Sure, I could use someone else, but… this is… much more fun, isn’t it, Dr. Grey? I believe I once told you there is nothing you possess that I cannot take away. Seems that remains true.”

To those who did not know him well, John would look expressionless. Not to Jamie. John Grey was thinking, all his years of education and experience working with his natural intelligence to calculate a response.

“I haven’t seen her since she was seven years old,” Grey said. “That girl is as much a stranger to me as anyone else. If you think you can use her to hurt me, you’ve made a terrible miscalculation. She’s no one to me.”

There was only one word to describe that look that washed over Brianna’s face like poison—heartbroken.

Randall said nothing in response, just tightened his grip on the rope, yanking Brianna to her knees in front of him. He watched Grey for a response. Nothing. Not even anything Jamie could see. 

John was still pale, Jamie still weak and swaying from being so ill, both of them upright only by virtue of being too damn stubborn to give up. They weren't going to make their way out of this with strength or speed, and the element of surprise was shot. Jamie looked at Brianna's face, tears falling silently down her cheeks without a sob. She probably wasn't even aware of them. One wrong move and they'd lose absolutely everything. 

"Aye," Jamie said, and Frank Randall's gaze fell on him. 'Ye do need a human sacrifice. And an incantation ye must recite. The lass doesna ken it." He took a breath, let it back out, and hurled himself into No Man's Land. He shoved the Nazi he held aside, sent him sprawling in the mud. Slowly, carefully, Jamie laid his pistol on the ground and held up his empty hands.

With a quick move, John had his gun on the Nazi now, keeping at least some of their leverage.

"Da, what are—"

"Let the lass go, Randall, and ye can have me." 

Bree gasped, started to protest.

"I ken the incantation," Jamie said. "It's no' in the journal. My wife taught it to me. She was a traveler, ken? I'll gi' ye the incantation if ye let the lass leave with Dr. Grey."

“Jamie,” John’s voice broke on his name. “No. Take me, Randall. It’s me you’ve always wanted. Not Fraser. Not his daughter.  _ Me. _ ”

Randall laughed. “Never thought I’d see the day when the great Dr. John Grey and his Scottish lover were clamoring to simply hand themselves over to me.” His eyes, emptier than a shark’s, pierced through Jamie like sharp teeth. “I could keep the girl and make you suffer, Mr. Fraser, but Dr. Grey is correct, he is the one I want to hurt.”

John took a step forward, struggling on his injured leg. His intent to be exchanged for Brianna clear.

Randall let out a whistle, like he was calling in the dog, and snapped his wrist up, palm out towards John. “I said I wanted to hurt you and I can think of no better way than slitting Jamie Fraser’s throat and then using his body to ensure that the Führer’s empire does not extend only into the future but into the past as well.  _ Heil  _ Hitler!”

“ _ Heil _ Hilter!” The sound of the answering voices chilled Jamie to the bone.

As Jamie approached, Randall tugged on the ropes around Brianna’s wrists. Her arms wiggled, then she snapped her body around like the crack of a whip and crushed her fist into Randall’s nose. It crunched and blood spurted down his face and over his lips.

“Da, run!” she shouted. 

Randall lunged forward, grabbed her hair and threw her face first into the mud like a rag doll. “Foolish bitch,” he spat. 

Grey aimed his pistol at Randall, but before he could take a shot, Randall had his own aimed at Brianna's head, his boot between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the mud. He spat a mouth full of blood into the grass. “Come over here and get on your knees, Fraser.” Randall’s grip tightened on his gun. “Don’t think I won’t do it.”

Jamie's vision went red around the edges to see Bree thrown to the mud. Every instinct shrieked at him to tackle Randall to the ground, to beat the life out of him with his bare hands. But he couldn't outrun that bullet.

"Aye, ye fucking bastard," Jamie spat, sinking to his knees in the mud at Randall's feet. Brianna met his eyes, terrified and heartbroken and furious to be those things. 

"Da, I'm sorry," Bree said, voice urgent and breathy. "I'm so sorry." Tears cut pale tracks in the mud on her face.

"Dinna fash,  _ a chuisle _ ," he whispered. "I'll be alright.

"Are ye a man of honor or no?" Jamie said to Randall, looking up at him with only disdain and contempt written plainly on his face. "Let them go and I'll play my part."

Randall lifted his boot off Brianna’s back and retrained his gun on Jamie. Brianna scrambled to her feet and stumbled toward John. He reached out to help steady her but she tugged away from his touch. John’s eyes shut and he swallowed, as Randall wrapped the rope around Jamie’s wrists.

Jamie stole one last glance over his shoulder at Brianna and John. "Go wi' John, lass. He'll see ye safe. I love you." He should have added  _ both _ to the end of that last sentence, but he couldn't bear it. It would have felt like goodbye again.

His wrists bound tightly, Randall hauled Jamie to his feet, the rope digging into his flesh. "You three," Randall said to a trio of uniformed Nazis. "See them out. Make sure they leave the island. And then stand guard to ensure they don't return." He shoved Jamie roughly toward the largest tent, and Jamie stumbled, catching himself on his unsteady feet. "Let's go discuss incantations, shall we?"

* * *

John wanted to say something to Bree. Maybe he could figure out how if it weren’t for the blur in his mind from the blood loss. There were nearly twenty years of things he wanted to say to her, but he couldn’t manage to say even one of them. She wasn’t talking to him either, as their skiff cut through the choppy waters, leaving the island and the Nazis and Jamie behind them.  _ Oh, Jamie.  _

It should’ve been him that Randall took and Jamie should be on this skiff now, heading back to his life and to safety with Bree. Not John. What did he even have worth saving? He’d walked away from everything that had mattered when he’d driven away from Inverness that night. It should’ve been him. It should’ve been him.

“Bree…” John said, clutching at the pain in his chest, the hollow space left behind from Jamie’s absence. “I’m sorry.”

Bree stared at him, watery eyes gone cold. She'd inherited her father's impassive face, apparently. "Sorry?" There was a distinct edge in her voice. "For Da getting taken by the Nazis? For forgetting about the years when you were my Uncle John? For turning your back on me and on Da when we needed you the most? For what, John. Why are you sorry?" She hugged her arms around herself, the sea wind almost as cold as the space between them. The knuckles of her right hand were red but not terribly swollen from punching Randall in the face.

He  _ had  _ meant that he was sorry for what he’d said to Randall, the lies he’d told hoping that Randall would take him instead. And he had meant not being able to save Jamie then, as he had so wanted to, as he would always want to. “You think I forgot? Brianna, there hasn’t been a single day, barely a single hour, where I haven’t thought about you and missed you. I also know that doesn’t help, and it probably won’t help either to tell you I left for your own good and for your father’s.”

"Our own good?" she repeated in disbelief and scoffed. "That's rich. Mama wasn't right when she came back. I was a little girl and I have spent my entire life trying to figure out why the people I love kept disappearing out of my life. And Da…" her voice broke and tears stood in her pretty blue eyes, slanted and cat-like. Her father's eyes. "You left when Da needed his best friend the most. And you never called. You never wrote. And when I asked Da where you were all he could say was that you were treasure hunting and ‘maybe’ we'd see you again ‘someday.’" 

The tears fell again and her stony mask fell away, replaced by the rawest, most heartbreaking anguish Grey had ever seen on another person. "You were his best friend, weren't you? How could you just disappear?"

Everything inside Grey clinched, like his entire body was a fist and that fist was managing to crush itself. The pain in her voice… his sweet, little Brianna… he would give anything to take that pain as his own, even on top of the excruciating pain he already felt every day since leaving them behind. “I was his best friend, Brianna. But I wasn’t  _ only  _ his best friend, do you understand?” He let out a sigh, staring down at his hands, unable to look at her. Even grown, Brianna still looked so much like she had when she was small. When he could scare all her monsters away just by holding her impossibly tiny hands. “Your father and I… he should be the one to tell you this, but now… your father and I, we weren’t just friends. We were lovers.”

Brianna blinked at him, mouth ajar. Her cheeks were still wet but the tears had paused. "You were…" realization spread over her face. "Oh," she said, stretching the monosyllable into something long and full of understanding. The pieces were falling into place. "So when Randall called Da your Scottish lover, he wasn’t just being crass." Bree worried her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. "So you didn't just leave  _ when _ Mama came back. You left  _ because _ Mama came back. Da didn't...he didn't throw you out, did he?"

“No, but… your mother would have realized what we were to each other, Bree, if I had stayed. I don’t know how she would have reacted to the truth. She could've left Jamie, which would have broken him more than my leaving ever could or… worse, she could’ve gone to the authorities and had you taken from him. Or she could’ve been so… disgusted by it that she abandoned you both. I couldn’t let you lose your mother. Not again. And, maybe she wouldn’t have done any of that, probably not the latter, but there was the chance and…” John rubbed at the pained spot between his eyes. “I’m not proud of this part of it Bree, I’m not. But it also ripped my heart out every time I saw them together. The way he would look at her the way he used to look at me, I thought it just might kill me. I wish I would’ve been stronger… or smarter. I wish I would’ve been something that could have kept you safe from that pain. Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.” 

"Except your leaving  _ did _ break him, John." She reached across the narrow distance between them and took his hand in both of his, a lifeline. "It  _ did _ break him. When Mama came back she was… I never found out what happened to her while she was gone, but there was something wrong. And every day, Da mourned the woman she had been. And he mourned you, I know he did. Whenever he brought home your latest books I could see how sad he was, when he thought I wasn't looking." She clutched Grey's hand so hard it ground the delicate bones together. "And when Mama died, I would see him, in his study, late at night, writing letters just to throw them in the fire. I found your address in his desk, which is how I knew where to send my journal."

She stopped abruptly, all the words gone out of her in a rush. "If you still care for him, John, we  _ have _ to get him back. Randall  _ will _ kill him. And when he figures out that I've been lying he'll come after us and kill me too." The skiff bumped into the muddy boat slip on the mainland. "Will you help me save Da?"

Claire was dead? Jamie had conveniently left that out and John wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

For now though, John laughed because every other emotion had been spent from him. It was all he had left. That and the strength to make a confession decades in the making. “First of all, your father is the great love of my life. There hasn’t been a moment since the day we met where I did not love him, body and soul. Second, I never for a second planned to leave your father in the clutches of that putrid boil, Frank Randall. And finally, I will not help  _ you  _ save Jamie. I will see you safe and then _ I _ will kill that bastard Randall with my bare hands and bring your father back to you.” 

Bree released his hand and sat back, arms folded across her chest and jaw set into a stubborn line to rival her father's. "Like hell. You can barely stand up. And by the time you got me out of Bulgaria, Da would be dead. Face it, Uncle John. You need me. Da needs us both. And there is not a damn thing you can say or do to change my mind. So spare me the gallant bullshit and let's go."

John shook his head. He wanted to argue with her, but he knew the look. He’d seen it in Jamie’s eyes enough to know that arguing was futile. “You are your father’s daughter, then, aren’t you?” 

A broad smile lit up her face, and she lurched across the space to throw her arms around John’s neck in a crushing hug. “Not just his,” she said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Geillis try to figure out how to escape Nazi custody. Meanwhile, John and Brianna wait for backup.

Frank Randall couldn’t even be bothered to tie Jamie to the tent post himself. He’d ordered some lackey to do it for him, the arse. And in an obnoxious display of Nazi ambition, the bastard had kicked Jamie in the stomach while he sat in the dirt with his hands tied behind his back. With one long leg, Jamie had swept the Nazi’s legs out from under him, and he landed hard in the packed dirt, the air forced out of him with a whoosh. That had earned Jamie a rather painful beating, but the look of shock on that bastard’s face when he hit the dirt was an image Jamie would treasure for the rest of his days. However many there were. He dozed lightly for the rest of the night, face throbbing and ribs creaking, his shoulders aching from the angle of his bonds. 

He’d startled awake before the sun crested the horizon, thinking of Bree and John. His heart ached for the two of them. But Bree was safe, and John would see to it that she stayed that way. Whatever John did or did not feel for Jamie, he knew she was safe in his hands. 

The next day Randall had untied Jamie, given him water and bread and asked a lot of detailed questions about the stones, time travel, and the ritual involved. As far as Nazi interrogations went, Jamie didn’t think it had been all that eventful. He learned that Frank Randall and his facist goons hadn’t found the stones yet, thanks to Brianna’s very convincing misdirection. Jamie fed him some line about phases of the moon and reckoning by the stars. It had been convincing enough that Randall wrote it down and ordered one of his goons to prepare to search the island that night. 

“I only ken the incantation in Gaelic,” Jamie had said when Randall demanded it. “It doesna translate to English, but I expect it should still do fine.” After letting the bastard threaten him for a time, Jamie obligingly taught him the Gaelic lyrics to “Comin’ Thro the Rye.” Randall repeated the lines earnestly, butchering the pronunciation. Jamie walked him through it over and over, frustrating Randall by making him repeat unimportant sounds over and over again.  _ No, ye must roll that R more. That’s the muddled -ch, like the German -ich. _

The sun was setting when they shoved Jamie back to the tent where they’d kept him overnight. It wasn’t empty this time. Geillis Duncan looked up at the sound of the tent flap being tossed aside. She had a black eye and dried blood under her nose, and was tied to the central tent post with her hands behind her back.

Jamie waited until he was bound to the post behind her and the guard was outside before he spoke. “Ms. Duncan, are ye alright?”

“Aye,” she said, through tightly pressed lips by the sound of it. “I asked them to break my nose. Kent it would suit my face better crooked. Where’s yer handsome Englishman?” 

“Wi’ any luck, he and Brianna are off the continent by now. And he isna mine,” Jamie muttered under his breath, without much bitterness behind it.

“Is he no’?” Ms. Duncan made a guttural noise in her throat, then hissed as if that alone had been excruciating. “Could’ve fooled me. Ye found Brianna then, aye? Well, at least some good came out of this right disaster. Ye figured out what these arseholes want?”

Jamie snorted, smelling his own dried blood as a result. “Aye. I think they believe they can travel through time using the stone circles if they have a blood sacrifice. And here I am. They havna found the stones yet.” He changed the position of his legs, wincing as he tried to alleviate the pain of having been confined for nearly two days.

“Best to keep it that way. They keep tryin’ to get information out of me, but Brianna played it close to the chest. I dinna ken what they want to know even if I wanted to tell them to save my own skin. A clever lass, yer daughter.”

A smile tugged at Jamie’s lips, pride swelling in his chest. It had been a damn foolish thing, but he couldn’t think of a thing better than seeing his daughter suckerpunch Frank-fucking-Randall. “Aye, that she is. They’re going to search the island tonight, but they willna find the stones. At least, no’ any of the magic kind.”

Ms. Duncan tensed, her eyes lighting. “Did ye manage to keep yer trap shut too, then? After that beating ye got, I wouldna be surprised if ye had caved. Ye’re only human. Or have ye no figured it out either?”

Jamie laughed and leaned his throbbing head back against the tent post. “Nay, I spilled my guts. Sent the dumb bastards on a wild goose chase. The stones are no’ on this island.” He sobered and let out a long sigh, the rest of the problem settling back into the center of his mind. “But when they figure out I lied, they’re going to kill me. And possibly ye too, if they think ye helped me or Bree. How long have ye been on the island, lass? Have ye seen anything we can use to get ye out safe?”

“Nay,” she said. “They’re no’ going to kill ye until ye tell them the truth, I reckon. Me, on the other hand? Weel, fuck. If I dinna give them something they can use soon, I imagine they’ll put a bullet in my skull if they have enough mercy to no’ drown me in the sea. As for getting off the island… we’d have to get out of these damn ropes first.” Ms. Duncan thrashed against her restraints with a vicious snarl and then spit out a Gaelic curse that nearly made Jamie blush. 

“They willna need me for the truth when they realize I have the journal.” Jamie stretched his fingers until he reached the cool skin of Ms. Duncan’s struggling hand. “Quiet down, ye’ll just make the ropes tighter with yer squirming.” He looked around the sparse surroundings, looking for anything useful, sharp, or inspiring. Nothing to hand, of course, just a single lantern on a hook, hopelessly out of reach.

Lantern. Light.  _ Lighter. _

Jamie rolled his shoulders, tugging at the back of his coat, trying to work it down to a better angle. “Ms. Duncan, are ye terribly flexible?”

“Not terribly, but probably more than ye,” she whispered. “What do ye have in mind? Even if I could tie myself in a sailor’s knot, it wouldna do us any good wi’ out a knife to cut these ropes.”

“My left coat pocket,” Jamie said, trying to force the fabric of his coat in the right direction so she could reach it. “Ye might have to raise up a bit. Can ye reach inside? I’ve a lighter in there.”

Ms. Duncan struggled, yelping through the pain of her injuries. It took three tries before she sank her hand into his pocket and fished around. “Aye, I got it.” She struggled to flick it, and eventually it clicked correctly. “I’ll get yer ropes off then ye can get mine.”

She struggled over and the flame singed the rope, releasing the stench of smoldering fibers into the air, as the material slowly burnt. 

“Ow,” she spat. “Fuck.” The lighter dropped to the ground. “Fuck.” With a sizzle, Jamie felt a flare of heat as the grass behind him ignited. 

“Tell me ye didna just drop the lighter,” Jamie deadpanned. He already knew the answer, he could smell the bitter tang of live foliage catching fire.

“Do ye want me to lie to ye?” Ms. Duncan struggled against her own ropes. “Fuck. Shite. Goddammit.” She drew in a sharp and broken breath, then burst into a wicked fit of laughter. “Tis a family curse to burn at the stake as a witch, aye?” Another helpless struggle against the restraints. “For Christ’s sake!”

“ _ Merde _ ,” Jamie swore, the situation quickly devolving from  _ rather dire _ into  _ exceedingly urgent _ . At least Ms. Duncan had managed to get his ropes started before she’d dropped the blessed lighter. “Ye listen to me, we are not burning to death in this fucking tent.” He gave an experimental tug with his wrists, felt some of the fibers snapping. Some, but not enough. 

It was becoming uncomfortably warm, roasting away in the grass, and Jamie tugged, pulled, yanked, everything to try to snap his ropes. No such luck. He shifted, followed the heat of the flame, contorting his shoulders as much as he could to hold the rope over the fire. It burnt his hands and he hissed with the pain of it. But he kept at it, pulling his arms apart as hard as he could until at last the ropes gave way.

Jamie shook the smoldering ropes from his wrists and clambered to his feet, slapping at his trousers to be sure they hadn’t caught fire too. The fire was spreading fast, charging toward every flammable surface in the tent. Muttering a string of curses in three or four languages, Jamie dropped to one knee behind Ms. Duncan and tried to get her bonds untied. She had tightened them in her struggle and Jamie’s hand’s ached from the fire. And just for good measure, smoke was filling the tent, obscuring his vision. With a  _ whoosh, _ the canvas wall of the tent ignited.  _ Fucking perfect. _

“Mr. Fraser!” Ms. Duncan shouted, a shrill rasp to her voice from the smoke. “Just leave me here to roast. Go save yer daughter and keep those facist bastards away from the stones, aye? Go, ye thick-headed brute!” 

Flames climbed the wall of the tent, spreading to the roof. Jamie coughed, ducking his head into the crook of his shoulder in an effort to get some clean air. “Ms. Duncan, please shut up. I have the market cornered on self-sacrifice this week, ken? We are leaving together.”  _ There!  _ He got the stubborn knot free and yanked the rope loose. “Let’s go,” he shouted, climbing to his feet and dragging Ms. Duncan with him through the burning flap and into the night air.

They dashed into the camp, coughing and sputtering, eyes streaming from the smoke. Ms. Duncan tripped over a rock and landed directly in Frank Randall’s waiting arms. Jamie made to rush Randall, but a pair of Nazis caught both of his arms and dragged him back.

“Get yer bloody hands off me!” Ms. Duncan shouted. “Ye fucking goon.” 

Randall, of course, did not let up. He was strong and she was small. It was pointless for her to waste her energy fighting against him. “When will you ever learn that I will  _ always  _ win? Now.” Randall twisted her arm behind her back and sank her to her knees in front of him. His eyes burrowed into Jamie, vicious and full of hate. “Tomorrow.” He twisted Ms. Duncan’s arm tighter and dragged her kicking across the ground. He knelt down in front of Jamie, eye to eye. “And yesterday.”

Jamie met Randall's stare, fury burning through his exhausted and battered body. "Let her go. I’ll take ye to the stones. Ye have yer sacrifice. Ye dinna need her anymore." He pulled against the men holding him, and they wrenched his arms up and back. Jamie bit down on a shout of pain. 

Randall released Ms. Duncan, and she fell to a heap in the grass, groaning. She climbed to her feet, stretched her stiff arms, and gave Jamie the most serpent-like sneer that Jamie had ever seen. She stuck two fingers into the cuff of her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief, which she used to calmly wipe her face. “He has the journal,” Ms. Duncan said to Randall. “Check his pocket.”

The men restraining Jamie tightened their grip, fingers digging painfully into Jamie’s biceps. Randall rifled through Jamie’s jacket pockets until his hand closed on the journal and extracted it. His cold, beady eyes still on Jamie, he passed the journal back over his shoulder, and Geillis snatched it from his hand.

“You,” Jamie snarled up at the lying bitch. “Ye’re a fucking Nazi. I will kill ye both, ye have my word.”

“I could kill you right now, Fraser, and I’ve half a mind to, ken? But I still need that blood sacrifice. I’d planned on using yer daughter. With her mother dead, Brianna was the closest thing I could find to someone who traveled through the stones, and now ye’re the closest thing I have to her. I sure hate to compromise, but as is life. Now.” She smiled, dark and hollow as a grave. “Let’s figure out where the bloody hell these stones are, aye?”

* * *

John Grey hated waiting, and it seemed Brianna Fraser had about the same relationship with it as he did. He’d rented them a room in a dingy hostel, but the owner had seemed skeptical of a young woman with an unmarried man. Brianna, with skills of deception to rival her father’s, had cooked up a masterful story that involved John being her father and their being on their way to visit her ailing mother. 

But now, they were just sitting in this dimly lit room that smelled of cheap cigarettes, waiting to hear back from Stephan von Namtzen while God knows what happened to Jamie Fraser out there on that island with the despicable Frank Randall. John ducked his head into his hands. Everything hurt. From his head to his thigh to his heart. For a moment, he wished he were a praying man like Jamie, that he could find some solace in the feel of cool beads in his hands, words whispered to an unseen God. 

“Goddammit, Stephan,” he barked through his fingers. “Where are you when I need you?”

Brianna rose to her feet for the twelfth time in the last hour and paced the room with her arms crossed over her chest. She drummed her fingers impatiently, three steps to cross the rug, pivot, three steps back. “What if he doesn’t call back? What are our other options? Da doesn’t have much time. I mean, you guys used to get out of impossible situations all the time, right?”

“We did.” Grey wanted to laugh, but it hurt. Not just the pain in his leg, but the pain caused by the memory of Jamie, of those wild, frantic years they’d spent together circumnavigating the globe, in spite of Jamie’s sea and air sickness. “We were quite a bit younger though and not up against Nazis, who don’t have even the smallest regard for human life or dignity. But you’re right. I mean, I believe in Stephan. He’ll come through, but we do need a backup plan and we need it soon.” He sighed. “What we need is a trap. Get them off the island with your father. Playing our game instead of theirs. At least, I don’t think they’ll kill Jamie until they’ve found the stones and can sacrifice him.”

Bree stopped and whirled to face Grey, her eyes wide and cheeks pale. “Uncle John,  _ please _ tell me you have my journal. Da doesn’t have it, right?”

“He… does. Shit.” John slammed his boot down on a cockroach that scurried out from under the bed, crushing it. “Shit. I thought it would be safer with him. Does your journal give the exact location of the stones?”

“Pretty damn close. Within a square mile or two, I think. I tried to disguise it, but Randall isn’t an idiot. He’ll find it.” She massaged her temples with her fingers and sighed. “We can’t stay here much longer. I’m going to lose my—” The ringing phone cut her off.

Grey frantically answered the phone, nearly knocking it off the nightstand. “Hello,” he said.

“John, it’s Stephan... von Namtzen,” the voice on the other end of the line sounded like pure relief. 

“I know who you are, Stephan,” he said, smiling despite himself. “You got my message then?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I contacted my associates here in Yugoslavia. They are on their way, but I am not sure when they will arrive to assist you. I am coming too, yes?”

“No, Stephan. That’s not necessary.”

“I am coming too, yes.” This time it did not sound like a question and Grey knew that it was not. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Of course. It is not only for our… friendship that I come though. I have spoken with my sources in the party, and If these Nazis are who I think they are, I’ve had trouble with them before. You, Fraser, his daughter, are all in grave danger. Wait for me and for my associates. That you’ve survived your encounters so far... I know you do not believe in miracles, but…”

“We’re waiting, Stephan. Just come quickly. Before they discover the X led to the wrong spot and Jamie pays for it.”

“Yes. Goodbye, John.” Stephan hung up before Grey could tell him goodbye. 

The color had returned to Bree’s cheeks. “So the cavalry is coming?”

“Eventually.” John frowned, observing Bree where sat across from him on the other bed. “Your father… he told me that you read all of my books, that you were particularly interested in them. The stones… I mentioned them in several of my books, but they were never a focus of them or honestly a focus of any of my works. What led to your interest in all this?”

Bree took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and crossed her legs at the ankles, straightening her back. “My mother, actually.” She braced her hands on her knees, fiddled with the pleat of her skirt. “When she… came back. Something was very wrong. Different. She didn’t recognize me, of course. She was afraid of Da for some reason. I didn’t understand it when I was so young. I’m still not sure I understand it. But it destroyed him. No matter how kind he was, no matter how gentle, she was skittish. She cried.  _ A lot. _ I’d see her sometimes, drawing circles. Just…” she pantomimed drawing concentric circles in the air, “circles.” Bree squinted at the smashed cockroach, but she clearly was staring through it. “And she became obsessed with the occult side of Druid culture, and legends like the woman of Balnain. And one day, I was maybe ten years old, Papa Murtagh and I were going to take a drive up to craig na dun, you know the stone circle outside of Inverness? When Mama found out about it, she went positively insane. She wouldn’t let me out of the house for a week, and threatened not to let Murtagh see me again.”

She turned her head to look at Grey, eyes glistening, but she didn’t cry. Her tears must have been spent by now. “And then I started reading your books, at first just to feel close to you. But I started connecting the dots, finding parallels to what you had to say on the subject and what Mama raved about. I’ll never know for sure, but… I’m pretty sure Mama traveled through time when I was a baby. And something horrific happened. I don’t know what, I was always too terrified to ask her. That’s what I was researching. All the references to time travel are consistent. Every. Single. One. And if I’m right? And if Randall figures it out? We could find ourselves two centuries into the Third Reich.”

Grey wasn’t sure if it was the right move, but the weight of what she’d just laid out before him was something she’d carried alone for so long. He wanted Brianna to know that she never had to carry it—or anything—alone again. He stood up and walked to the other bed, easing himself down beside her. John hesitated, but he slowly lifted his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her into him. “I was wrong to leave. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I thought I was doing the right thing, but that doesn’t matter. But I want you to know, you have me. No matter what, as long as you want me. I don’t know or even really think there’s a future for me with Jamie, as much as I want him, as much as I always will, I know that I’ve hurt him. But I promise you, I will never leave you behind again.” John tucked fingers against Brianna’s cheek and guided her to look at him. “You never stopped being my little girl. I’ve kept the doll you gave me. I don’t know if you remember giving it to me. But I keep it in my office at work, so I can look at it every day and think of you and hope my love could reach across the world and touch you.”

Bree made a watery sound, something midway between a laugh and a single sob. “I remember. I was so afraid you’d be lonely and I didn’t want you to forget me. I’m glad it worked.”

“Maybe I can use those stones to fix everything I ruined back then,” John said, stroking her hair. “If I could take this all away from you…”

Brianna shook her head. “No, it’s in the past. I forgive you, Uncle John. I’m glad I have you back now.” 

“Yes.” John smiled over at her. “As long as I can manage to not get killed by Nazis in the next few days.”


	8. Chapter 8

It had been two days and Stephan’s reinforcements still hadn’t arrived. Grey and Brianna had spent almost all of that time in von Namtzen’s loaned car, parked next to a church with a clear view of the boat slip. Grey had given the church’s address to von Namtzen to serve as their rendezvous, and the German had reiterated his warning to wait. 

The first morning, both of them miserable from a restless night, Grey had insisted they acquire a few creature comforts. Namely showers, clean clothes, a shave for himself, and a lot of coffee. He had returned from the mens room, dressed in brown trousers, his leather jacket over a white button-down shirt, and his fedora at a rakish angle. Brianna’s face had lit up at once and she announced, “There’s my Uncle John,” as she handed him a steaming cup of very strong coffee.

By the afternoon of the second day, Grey and Bree were both finding it impossible to sit still, and paced the car park instead. Brianna’s flaming red hair was bound back in a tight bun. The wind off the sea set her dark green jacket to rustling. The remnants of her MacKenzie scarf tied about the waist of her practical slacks fluttered in the gust. 

Grey had been answering all of Brianna’s questions with enthusiasm and regaling her with unpublished stories of his adventures with Jamie. She listened with rapt attention, her laughter at their more ridiculous escapades ringing with the tone of perfect joy. Sliding her hand out of her jacket pocket, something small clasped in her fist. She stroked it absently with her thumb, fiddling with a gold chain dangling from it.

“What is that?” Grey asked, inclining his head at her closed fist. He leaned against the car to give his injured leg a rest. It still hurt a hell of a lot, but at least he could stand without crying out, and Brianna had done a fair job of dressing it.

Bree looked down at her hand with a furrowed brow as if she only just realized she held something. “Hmm? Oh, this is… it’s nothing,” she said and jammed her hand and the mystery object back into her pocket.

“It seems like something,” he said gently.

She gave a sheepish shrug and extracted the object once more. “It’s silly, I suppose. But it’s a kind of amulet, technically. Mama gave it to me when she got sick.” Brianna handed it to Grey, the gold chain dribbling into his hand with a long, tinkling whisper. 

The amulet was a round stone perhaps two inches in diameter in a gold setting. The stone itself was a dark, earthy green swirled and smudged with red. Carved into the stone was a swirling, three-armed triskelion.

“This is quite the impressive piece.” It would likely be worth a fortune in Frank Randall’s black market dealings. “I’m quite curious how your mother came in possession of it. What did she tell you about it?”

“She never said where she got it. I assume it had something to do with...wherever she went.” Bree paused, then corrected herself. “Or  _ whenever _ she went, I suppose. Mama called it a journey charm, meant to protect the wearer on their travels.” Bree stood shoulder to shoulder with Grey, both of them studying the amulet as she explained. “It’s bloodstone, which is supposed to affect energies like courage or strength. Some cultures use it to connect with guardian spirits.” She traced the engraving with her index finger. “And you know about the triskelion as a Celtic symbol for strength.” 

“Of course,” John said. But the triskelion wasn’t only a symbol of strength. It also represented the stages of life. Past, present, future. The concept felt particularly apt as he looked at Brianna. She seemed as all three of them now. Still, the little girl from his memories, even as she sat here now, grown. Yet he was also left wondering, imagining, what her future might hold. The experiences she would have, the losses she would know, the loves she might find. “It’s a lovely thought.” 

Bree shrugged and stared down at a bit of broken glass which she nudged with the leather toe of her boot. “I know from your books you don’t believe in this sort of thing yourself. But Mama did. And Da, well…you know how steadfast he is on matters of faith.” She took a breath and met Grey’s eyes, shoving her hand into her jacket pocket and resting it there. “I was just trying to channel some of that protection to Da.”

John said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say. He didn’t believe and all he could do was hope Stephan von Namtzen and his men arrived promptly. John handed the amulet back to Brianna, who stuffed it in her coat pocket.

Bree stared across the expanse of sea to the wooded island where Jamie was held captive. At last she took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about the first time you met Da. It was in the war, right?”

“Yes,” John said, the memory coming back to him as clear as colorized film. “It was in the middle of a long, drawn out battle on the western front. The rain had been awful for days, and the trench I’d been in had started to flood. Death by infection, gangrene and all that, was often far worse than a quick shot by a bullet, so I took a chance. I directed my men to leave our flooded trench for the one several yards ahead. The Germans took their shots, but by some miracle, all my men made it into that trench. I was the last one in. One of their bullets knocked the helmet right off my head as I slid down.  _ Fuckers. _ And, then, there he was, just tearing into a pack of Wrigley’s chewing gum with his teeth. The most handsome man I’d seen in my entire life.” He let out a laugh and gave Brianna a playful glance. “That was the first and only time I ever felt grateful to be in one of those damn bloody trenches.” 

Brianna clutched both palms to her heart and grinned broadly. “That’s really romantic. In a serious threat to life and limb sort of way,” she added with a laugh. It was a sweet sound, full of optimistic joy, and Grey smiled in reply. Bree reached into the car and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in paper and handed one to Grey. “And you two managed to stay together for the rest of your tour?” she asked, unwrapping her sandwich. She paused before taking a bite. “I mean as soldiers, or friends. As in you fought together.” Bree took a bite, the crisp lettuce crunching audibly.

“We were separated once.” Grey shuddered, the dark memory clouding his mind. “But other than that… yes, and we were just friends, though I was hopelessly in love. You have to know nothing would’ve happened between us if Jamie hadn’t believed your mother dead. Even then, it took us some time.” 

"That must have…" Bree trailed off, her attention suddenly focused on the island. She narrowed her eyes across the sea and pointed, eyes going wide with shock. "Oh my God. Is that  _ smoke?" _

“Oh, Christ. I think it is. This better be one of Jamie’s half-baked schemes and not—”  _ Frank Randall burning bodies,  _ he thought but did not say. “I just wish we could know what was happening there. Shit,” Grey spat. “We have to know?  _ I  _ have to. You just… stay put. I’ll row out and check.”

"Like hell," Bree said, racing after him down the boat slip.

Grey stopped and turned to block Brianna with his body. “I told you what Stephan said. You can’t just expect me to allow my  _ daughter _ to confront Nazis without sufficient protection.” 

That brought Brianna to an abrupt halt and she stared at him, mouth ajar. She recovered at last, and gave him back his stubborn expression with very steep interest. "You're still injured. No telling what kind of shape we'll find Da in. If you think I'm going to risk losing  _ both  _ of my fathers to the Nazis  _ who abducted me, _ you've got another thing coming. We are in this together."

“Fine, but if you get killed your father will kill me and I won’t do a thing to stop him.”

“Rather dramatic, but deal,” Bree said, and side-stepped around him, jogging to the boat slip. 

They pushed the little craft down into the water with a splash, hopping in at a trot. Grey dropped the motor down into the water and brought it to life with a liberal application of swearing and elbow grease. He steered them through an indirect path toward the island, hoping that if the beach was still guarded, as Randall had ordered, they could avoid detection as long as possible. 

The tiny outboard motor grumbled valiantly, propelling them loudly across the water at the maddening speed of not-fast-enough. 

“Oh, God damn it!” Brianna shouted over the deafening racket of the motor. She pointed behind Grey toward the mainland. “Turn us around, now!” 

Grey brought the skiff about as sharply as he dared, following Bree’s finger to a pair of speedboats coming to dock several hundred yards south of their boat slip. “Shit. They must have come from the other side of the island and snuck past us. Can you see your father with them?”

Bree leaned over the bow of the skiff, squinting. “I can’t...” They were disembarking now, khaki bastards making their way toward shining black cars. “There! Yes, I see him. Can’t this thing go any faster?”

Grey jammed on the throttle, but it was already opened up as far as it would go.

He switched off the motor at the last second and allowed a great deal of momentum to propel them up onto the slip. The pair of them leapt from the still-moving skiff and dashing to the car.

Grey unlocked Stephan’s car, then threw open the driver’s door and hopped in the front seat. Brianna slammed her door at the same time he did. He jammed the key into the ignition and the car’s engine revved. He reversed with a slam to the accelerator and the tires screeched on the road as he turned out of the spot and bolted into the street. 

His instinct was to weave through traffic until he caught up to the cars, but from years of finding himself in similar situations, Grey understood that you had to know when to follow your instincts and when to not. If Frank and his Nazi goons knew they were being pursued, they could kill Jamie out of spite, if they felt so inclined, and they’d certainly lose the element of surprise.

Grey bolted through the yellow at the intersection and threw a haphazard u-turn. 

Bree braced herself against the dash, the maneuver flinging her around. "What the hell are you doing? They're getting away!"

“They have your notebook, Bree. We know where they’re going, but von Namtzen doesn’t. I need to leave word at the church about where we’ve gone off to, so they can meet us there. We still need the back up he’s bringing.”

Grey slammed on his breaks in front of the church and pulled the car into park. He jumped out and grasped the open car door as he spoke to Bree. “There’s a pen and paper in the glovebox. Please.” 

Bree opened the glovebox and swiped a small black notebook and ball-point pen. She shoved them into John’s hands. 

Using the car for support, John scribbled out a message to Stephan telling him where to meet them instead. He tore the page out of the notebook and handed it and the pen back to Brianna. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He threw her the car keys. “Just in case.” He slammed the door. 

Grey took the steps up the church two at a time, ignoring the burning agony in his leg. He flung open the door and raced into the echoing sanctuary. 

“Father,” he shouted to a man draped in the black apparel of a clergyman. “Father, may I ask you a question, Father?”  _ Shit.  _ The man may not even speak English and he did not speak Bulgarian.

The older man turned around and spoke in struggling English, “Yes, what can I do for you? Do you need to make a confession?”

_ About a thousand,  _ he thought,  _ but I’m not Catholic and God, if He exists, will just have to take me or leave me as I am. _

“If a German man comes in by the name of von Namtzen. Give him this note.” Grey held it out to the priest, who slowly took it, brow scrunched. “Please. It’s of the utmost importance.”

The priest nodded and pressed his pale lips together in a thin line. “Yes. I will do that.”

“Thank you. You have my deepest, dearest gratitude.” With that, Grey hurried back out of the church, down the steps and to Brianna in the car. 

She'd slid over into the driver seat and had the engine running, bouncing with unbridled impatience. "Come on, shake a leg!"

* * *

**Outside Primorsko — 1939**

Jamie dozed in the car. Or at least he tried to, jammed into the backseat between two Nazis who elbowed him hard in the ribs whenever his eyes closed for more than a blink. He hadn’t slept since… he couldn’t remember when he’d last slept through a night.

Right. In Paris, with John. He always did sleep better with John.  _ Please let them be safe,  _ he prayed.

The sun was sinking low in the orange sky by the time the car stopped and he was dragged roughly out and made to walk into the forest. The same two men shoved him roughly, jarring what Jamie thought might be a cracked rib or two. He winced, stumbling along behind Frank Randall and Geillis Duncan. They eventually stopped in a small clearing and Geillis—Jamie had stopped thinking of her as Ms. Duncan—thumbed through Brianna’s journal. It hurt him to see it, as if the reading of Bree’s words by this evil bitch could somehow tarnish his daughter.

Geillis pointed to the east. “This way,” she said.

As they picked their way over gnarled tree roots and rotting logs, a sense of deep dread and cold uneasiness crawled its way up Jamie’s spine. It curled around the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand on end. They were approaching something very, very wrong. Something powerful and malevolent and close. The feeling of being prey to something beyond his comprehension made him alert enough that he was clear-headed enough to avoid stumbling over dead branches.

They  _ had  _ been close. Within a few minutes they came to a stop in front of a structure the size of a large family mausoleum with an arched doorway. As they approached, the breeze brought the smell of rot and very old death. The doorway was low, just shy of six feet, and all Jamie could see of the interior beyond was fathomless pitch.

The stone above the arch was marred with carvings, ancient and weathered. Randall reached up and brushed them clean with his bare hand. Jamie shuddered. How could he stand to touch it? Enough dirt and debris fell away to reveal three lines of Latin text when Randall lit a torch and held it up. “This is it,” Randall announced, quite unnecessarily under the circumstances.

Geillis bared her teeth in a feral grin, approached the structure with measured, reverent steps and ran her finger tips down the side of the arched doorway in a caress. She turned to the nearest man with a torch and gestured from him to the doorway with one finger. “ _ Du. Geh hinein _ .”

The fair-haired Nazi swallowed, hesitating, before taking a cautious step toward the structure.

“ _ Jetzt! _ ” Geillis shouted.

The man startled and lurched forward, ducking under the arch. By the wavering glow of his torch, Jamie could only see a narrow corridor of dark, bare rock, descending down into the earth. The Nazi took slow steps down into the passage, his boots scraping along the dusty stone floor. The hairs on Jamie’s arms stood up, gooseflesh rippling over him. At almost the exact same moment, a scream of terror and pain billowed out from the arch, silenced almost immediately. 

The Nazi’s head was flung out of the doorway, bouncing and rolling through the grass to Randall’s feet. The eyes were wide, frozen in a final expression of horror, the mouth open in an eternal, wordless scream. 

The coppery stench of blood joined the rotting grave smell, and Jamie swallowed down over his rising gorge. Randall sneered at the severed head in distaste and nudged it away with his shoe.

Geillis stared up at the Latin text over the arch. She read aloud with mostly accurate pronunciation.  _ “Lex bona dicendi, lex sum quoque dura tacendi. Ius avidae linguae, finis sine fine loquendi. Ipsa fluens, dum verba fluunt, ut lingua quiescat.” _

Randall squinted up at the carving. “Hard rule of silence I, good rule of speech. To words that know no end, an end I teach. I flow as well as they, that rest the tongue may reach. A riddle?”

Geillis flashed him a wicked smile. “Aye.” She tapped her index finger against her narrow chin, pacing. “What is the Latin word for river?” she asked Randall.

_“Flumen,”_ he answered after a pause.

Jamie scoffed and shook his head. 

Randall whirled around to face him, annoyed. “You have a counterpoint, Fraser?”

Jamie raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Nay. Keep sacrificing yer men.”

“You solve it, then,” Randall said. 

Jamie laughed and shook his head even though it made his battered face throb. “No’ a chance.”

Randall pulled his fist back and punched Jamie across the jaw. The force of it knocked Jamie off balance enough that he ended up on his knees in the grass, pain exploding and throbbing through his skull. When Jamie looked up, Randall had the barrel of his pistol less than a foot from Jamie’s forehead. He froze.

“On your feet, Fraser,” Randall ordered. “Or I will shoot you like a dog.”

Jamie spat blood into the grass at Randall’s feet. “Do it then, you fucking coward.”

The sound of a whip crack cut through the hair. A leathery tendril snaked around the barrel of Randall’s gun and tore the weapon from his grasp.

_ John.  _ Standing tall, injured leg or no. Eyes as fierce as a warrior’s as he stared down Frank Randall. Wind billowed his white shirt like the sail of a ship and on his head sat his weather-worn fedora. An image plucked from the countless dreams Jamie had had of the man over their years apart.

Was  _ this  _ a dream? A hallucination brought on by exhaustion? But no, no it couldn’t be. Because Frank Randall had really been disarmed and Nazis were really swarming like gnats around John. 

Randall’s gun fired, nailing one of the Nazis in the belly. He clutched himself, gurgled then collapsed. 

“Let me go, you, you slimy, inhuman, festering—” A startling slap and  _ Oh, Christ. Brianna. _

Jamie scrambled to his feet and ran toward the Nazi holding Bree with her arms twisted behind her back. He’d tear the bastard’s spine out with his bare hands.

“Stop!” Geillis shouted, angling a pistol at Brianna. 

Jamie froze, looking around. John, too, had been restrained, guns pointed at him. Randall had recovered his dropped weapon and held it trained on Jamie—with his left hand, Jamie noticed with a swell of pride at John’s skill. 

“Let’s try this again, shall we, Fraser?” Randall sneered. “If you won’t get us through the corridor to save your own skin, you’ll do it to save theirs.”

Jamie met Brianna’s gaze, the lass far more furious than frightened. John wore a similar expression, with a healthy dose of purely rational concern creasing his brow. “Alright,” Jamie said at last. “I’ll do it.”

Looking pretty damn pleased with himself, Randall motioned toward the archway with his gun. “Get on with it, then.” He crooked the fingers of his injured hand behind him, to the Nazi’s holding Bree and John. “Bring them closer so they can watch.” He leered at John with that slimy grin of his. “I’d hate for you to miss a moment of this.”

A sneering Nazi jammed a pistol into John’s back and drove him forward. A hand gripped his neck and forced him to look straight at Jamie. 

“I’ll do it,” Grey said, his eyes flicking from Brianna to Jamie. “Whatever it is. I’ll do it. You’ve got the world renowned Dr. John Grey here. You would be a fool not to use him.” 

Geillis tipped her lips into an awful sneer. “Ye think verra highly of yerself, I see.”

“I know my worth,” Grey said through tight lips. 

“Aye, weel, ye canna blame me for saving my ace in the hole, then.” Her attention turned to Jamie. “Get on wi’ it then.”

Jamie gave John what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but as battered and swollen as his face felt, it probably just looked ghastly. “It’s alright, John.” 

Turning back to the archway, Jamie reread the Latin. It  _ was _ a riddle. But there was a slightly different translation than what Randall had come up with. 

_ Kind rule of speech, I am also the hard rule of silence, judgment upon a greedy tongue, an end to endless talking, flowing myself, as long as the words flow on, that the tongue may rest.  _

The answer wasn’t a river. It was related to water, yes, but not in its natural state. Eternal, yet tame.  _ A water-clock _ .

Jamie took a deep breath, tried to blow out that sense of dread and wrongness about the place on his exhale but didn’t really manage it. Nonetheless, he accepted a torch from one of the Nazis, and stooped to pass under the archway. At least the corridor beyond was tall enough for Jamie to walk through without ducking.

The corridor was a narrow thing. If he raised his arms to the side, he’d touch stone with his knuckles before his hands were above his waist. It dropped sharply into an indeterminable number of shallow stone steps leading underground. Jamie held the torch high before him. The steps were constructed of tight-fitting, flat stones, each with a single letter carved in them. It reminded him of that temple in Peru. John had stepped on a particular pattern of stones to avoid springing the traps that protected the golden idol. Hopefully, this was a similar design. And hopefully he’d figured out the right answer to the riddle.

Hopefully his Latin was as good as he thought it was. There was an awful lot riding on hope.

He found the letter C easily enough, and stepped on it carefully. He froze, held his breath. Nothing happened. The L was on the next step, and he was only able to fit the heel of his shoe on it. The E was more difficult, three steps down, but he made it. As Jamie stepped down to the P, the rock crumbled and he slipped. The bottom dropped out of his stomach and his heart stopped. But he managed to land with one foot on the S, the other on the Y. He hopped down to the D and the R. 

As he descended, Jamie could smell fresh blood again, a lot of it. His shoe scuffed over the boundary of the A stone, a very incorrect L clicking under his heel. He dropped immediately to a crouch, rolling over the last step in a skull-cracking somersault, as a huge blade sliced through the air where his neck had just been. He’d dropped his torch but it hadn’t extinguished. Retrieving it, Fraser found a lever smothered in cobwebs. He pulled back on it and the blade stopped on its way up the stairs.

Jamie’s clothes were damp where he’d landed, and he looked down at the small chamber. The headless body of the Nazi lay in a heap, blood pooled around it. To Jamie’s right was another damn hallway.  _ Great, more puzzles _ . 

A jolt of pain went up and down his spine and circled around his rib cage, taking his breath away. He leaned heavily on the wall, praying to God he didn’t accidentally set off another trap that would kill him in some horrific manner. “I’m through,” he yelled, voice strained with pain to his own ears.

With the trap now deactivated, the others followed. Randall had a grip on John’s arm and Brianna was surrounded by his lesser Nazi henchman. Together now, they traveled down the hall, boots echoing on the stone. Eventually, the cramped corridor opened into an expansive cavern. Water dripped from stalactites, illuminated by the ancient torch in Geillis’s hand and the modern ones held by several of the Nazis. 

At the very top of the cavern, Jamie spotted a narrow ledge and a door behind it, bordered by more carved Latin writing. He squinted, unsure how he would make it from one rocky precipice to next all the way to that narrow ledge. Not only because of his physical condition, which had him weak, dizzy and far from his prime, but because of his physical size. Many of these outcroppings of stone—and now he was seeing some of wood and rope—looked thin and fragile. He’d crush them. John was smaller and would have a better chance… if it weren’t for his mangled leg. 

“Goddammit,” John spat at Geillis. “You can’t possibly expect him to do  _ that.  _ It’s impossible. Send one of your own men.”

“We’ll send who we want,” Randall barked. “You do not make the decisions here, Dr. Grey.”

John’s eyes flashed from Randall to Geillis back to Randall. “And clearly, neither do you.”

The subtle twitch in Randall’s face proved that fact brought him a great deal of frustration. He made a quick turn on his heel and barked at Jamie. “Go. Now. Or your daughter will pay for it.”

The foolishness of the attempt was not beyond Jamie’s understanding. But what other choice did he have when these despicable monsters held the lives of the two people who mattered most to him gripped in their hideous claws? He took a step up onto the first outcropping, and the room lit up like an exploded bomb. The cavern filled with heat and light. A sharp flash of pain rushed up his right leg, his trouser on fire. Jamie threw himself back on the ground and rolled in the dirt to put it out. 

Too late. The fire had gone through his pants and practically cooked the first layer of skin from his calf. He groaned, digging his fingers into his thigh to keep from touching the burnt flesh.

“Da!” Brianna screamed.

“Oh my God, Jamie.” John rushed forward. A swift knee slammed into his gut and dropped him to the ground. 

“Shite,” Geillis spat. “He’s useless to us now.”

“Should I shoot him then?” one of the Nazis asked in a thick German accent.

“Weel, nay. He’s still useful to us as leverage.” Geillis whistled, nodding her head toward the raging fire. “Yer turn it is then, Dr. Grey.”

Randall yanked John to his feet and he struggled forward with only one good leg. He would only have a marginally better chance than Jamie at surviving this in his condition.

“Wait,” Brianna shouted. “Geillis, stop it, you horrid bitch. I’ll go. I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

“Shut up,” Randall spat at her.

Geillis silenced Randall with a single lifted finger. “Aye, ye’re right. Go then, lass.”

The Nazis who’d been restraining Brianna, released her and shoved her toward the fire. 

"Bree, don't," Jamie said through gritted teeth. His burnt leg throbbed with each beat of his thundering heart. "Nay, lass, I can make it." He struggled to his feet, brushed his charred leg against a wall, and his knees gave out. The pain was a white hot flash behind his eyes, blinding him as he collapsed back to the dirt, the burn itself shockingly cold.

Brianna shucked her jacket and tossed it to John. "You two have always taken care of me. I can do this one thing for you.”

John pulled the jacket towards his chest. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

Brianna smiled. “Here’s to hoping I retained something from those two summers of gymnastics camp.”

She drew in a deep breath and shuddered, placing her boot onto the outcropping of stone that had set off the flames. Brianna easily stood up onto it, the light of the flames shimmering on the sweat on her brow.

The nearest rock leaned several feet away. Fire burned beneath Brianna as she sprang forward and planted both feet on the stone. She swayed. Rock crumbled and disintegrated in the fire. 

It would be physically impossible to cross the distance between this rock and the next, but there was a chance, with the rope hanging between them, its end singed. Brianna flung herself onto the rope. Her legs kicked in the air and she let go, rolling onto a narrow precipice. She slid over rock dust and off the edge, disappearing from view. 

"Oh God," Jamie breathed. "Please, God, no." His eyes burned with tears and he forced himself to his feet. She can't have fallen. She couldn't have  _ oh God, it should have been me. _ He stumbled on his way to the ledge, would have fallen save for strong hands catching him. John.

“Jamie.” John wrapped his arms around Jamie, holding him. “ _ Jamie,  _ I’m—”

There was the crumble and scratch of rocks, followed by pale hands flickering in the firelight. A groan and Brianna hefted herself back onto the rock, her hair as red and wild as the fire around her. 

“See, Jamie,” Grey said, breathlessly. “She’s alright.” He stroked at Jamie’s arms, his head slumped into Jamie’s shoulder. “Our little girl is just fine. Just fine,” he murmured.

There was still so much ahead though and even one wrong step…

Brianna took the next leap easily, balancing one-footed near the wall of the cavern. She leaned her body against the wall, then looked up to the divots in the stone. Carefully, she turned on that single foot before digging her hand into the space in the wall and pulling her body up. With only hands and feet, she moved from one indentation to the next. Her foot slipped and her gasp echoed over the inferno, but her foot found another place to balance and she continued on and on and up and up until she just let go.

“Brianna!” John shouted, while Jamie slumped weakly. 

But Brianna popped up, out of nowhere, like the Jack-in-the-Box she’d had as a child. She smirked. The door was now only several leaps away. Brianna backed up and then raced forward, hurtling from one rock to the next. Then, she hopped to the next and the next. The last jump was a long one, not the longest she’d done yet, but long. Still dangerous. 

A horrible roar sounded through the cavern, followed by a thunderous cracking. The stalactites overhead shuddered and dropped, like melting icicles. Brianna was no longer visible through the dust, the smoke and fire, the horrendous deafening sound of collapse. 

John draped his body over Jamie’s bigger one. They huddled together, shuddering. As the thunderous downpour of rocks and debris died down, Jamie stood, pushing John aside but not letting go of him. He needed the anchor. Needed him, in case… "Bree!" he yelled, coughing up a lungful of dust and smoke. "Bree, lass, please answer me!" He shivered, physically and emotionally chilled to the bone now that the rockslide had extinguished the flames in the pit below. She was gone. Just like that, his little girl was gone. A broken sob wracked his frame and Jamie slid to the stone floor in a wretched heap. John followed, never letting go of him. Jamie clung to John, flooded eyes scanning the cavern for any sign of life, any indication of what had happened to his daughter.  _ Please, God, no. _

Something slapped on the ground next to them, and Jamie looked over to see one end of a rope ladder. He followed it with his eyes back up to the doorway. Brianna leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, hair a ferocious mane, beautiful face smudged with soot. She grinned in pure, unadulterated triumph. "Made it," she gasped, quite unnecessarily.

Jamie and John slumped against each other, relief letting the air out of their tires.  _ "Dio gratia," _ Jamie said aloud, repeating it in silent prayer over and over again.

"Well," Bree began, pausing to catch her breath. "Are you guys coming?"


	9. Chapter 9

At the start of this day, John Grey had not expected to end up here. He’d had a multitude of adventures in the intervening years without Jamie by his side, but rarely had he faced a series of trials. That time in Peru was the last he remembered being in a comparable situation. He could only hope, as he approached the end of the rickety rope ladder, that there was not a boulder the size of a Studebaker waiting to roll down from nowhere and crush them all.

John helped Jamie over the ledge, leaning on the other for support. Brianna rushed towards them and ducked into the safety of their arms. Jamie murmured Gaelic in her ear and kissed her grimy cheek.

“Weel, this is a touching scene, is it no’?” Geillis sneered. Her face softened ever so slightly as she looked at Brianna. “I hate it to break this to ye, lass, but I feel I must, as we  _ were _ friends once.”

“We were never friends, you lying Nazi bitch,” Bree snapped. 

“If we were no’ friends, then I shall allow saying this to bring me great joy. Did ye happen to ken, lass, that yer sodomite father preferred a cock in his arse to yer mother’s cunt?”

Brianna stiffened and took a solid, calm step away from her father and from John. She lifted a hand and slapped Geillis across the face, snapping the evil bitch’s head to the side. 

“My father loved my mother  _ and  _ he loved John Grey and you, you snivelling little twat, can go fuck yourself. Aye?”

She stepped back, putting herself between Geillis and the men, arms folded across her chest. 

Geillis rubbed the red spot on her cheek, and looked over at Frank Randall. “Rein them in. Or you won’t be any use to me either.”

Randall shouted German commands at his men and they followed with facist precision, tearing Brianna, John, and Jamie away from each other. John kept his hold on Jamie as long as he could. It took a slap to his arm to make him release the man’s sleeve. He didn’t want to let him go, and he didn’t want to let Brianna go either. This was all a nightmare. A slowly unravelling nightmare. 

As they left the cavern, reeking of hell, the space narrowed, forcing them to continue on single-file. Geillis shoved Bree to the most vulnerable position in the front, and to her credit, Bree kept her posture proud and unafraid. They marched on through the oppressively close space, the scent of stale water beginning to bubble up around them. They passed into a round chamber, the stone walls completely etched in runes and sigils, quite unrecognizable in the dim light. Finding no outlet, they made an about face and filed out the way they’d come.

Grey managed to dawdle his way alongside Bree, and he reached out to give her arm a reassuring squeeze. She smiled at him appreciatively, the expression softening her lovely, sharp features.

They felt the rumble as vibrations in their feet, then it grew into something auditory and visceral. Everyone tensed, scanning the room for whatever mortal threat was coming next. With a terrible screeching sound, a wall came down in the entrance to the chamber. Someone yelled in German to hurry and the Nazi who had been stuck to Grey like glue made a dash for it. Grey grabbed Bree’s arm and hobbled as fast as his injured leg could carry him, but the wall slammed down in front of his nose, separating them from Jamie, who shouted and reached for them.

Grey pounded against the wall, fear jolting through him like lightning, waking him up. He hated being separated from Jamie, but there was a benefit in this arrangement. Only one Nazi had been trapped in here with them… in the right circumstances, Grey could at least take this one out and there would be one less cockroach in the world.

A noise tore out of Brianna that could have been a gasp or a wheeze and she doubled over, clutching her middle. One of the men had been trapped with them, and he stared, wide-eyed from Bree to the door and back to Grey. 

The walls of the chamber produced a horrific wail, the sound of rage or despair or both. Bree echoed the sound, clapping her hands over her ears, face contorted with pain or terror.  _ Oh, God.  _ What was happening? John had to stop it, fight it, but how could he? He had no idea the nature of what was hurting her.

The wailing stopped. Bree fell motionless for an agonizing amount of time. At last, she straightened, dropped her hands to her sides, and stared  _ through _ John with bloodshot eyes. “We see you, John Grey.” The voice came from Brianna’s mouth, but it was not hers. Her posture was wrong. Her voice was wrong. Her eyes were wrong. Everything was  _ wrong _ and it turned Grey’s blood to ice water in his veins. She tilted her head to the side, like a cat deciding if the family goldfish was worth her trouble to eat. 

The Nazi spit out a German curse, then drew his gun. In a move too quick to be natural, Brianna slapped the gun out of the Nazis hand. Normally, John would be impressed by a move like this, but now it only terrified him. Brianna lurched forward with an unearthly snarl and hurled the Nazi through the air like he weighed nothing and he smacked against the wall with the horrible crunch of broken bones. The man wailed as Brianna pounced on him like the bengal tigers John had seen in India. Another horrific scream of terror filled the space before blood exploded all over the wall and Brianna like a popped balloon. 

Crouching down, Brianna turned on her heels. Her teeth were bared, her face painted in thick stripes of red. She hissed and scattered on hands and feet across the stone floor like an enormous spider. 

“Christ!” Grey shouted. He had to subdue her so he could figure out how to save her. He pulled out his whip and snapped it through the air. It coiled around her arm. He yanked, trying to pull her down. Instead, she snarled. Bucked up. Grey went flying, slung like a rag doll. He hit the floor. Pain rolled through him but he could tell nothing was broken. The whip had surprised her enough that it seemed to have tempered the inhuman strength. 

Bree’s body lifted, like a horrible, mechanical monster. One muscle, one bone at a time. Until it was staring at him, his whip still coiled around Brianna’s arm. Two empty pools of white appraised Grey.

“We like this one.” Brianna’s mouth moved, her voice came out, but it...wasn’t alone. “She is powerful. Strong. She will make a fitting Guardian.” She took slow, measured steps toward Grey, stalking him, the handle of the whip dragging on the stone floor. “After she kills you, she will be ours.”

“Brianna,” he said, not understanding what was happening, let alone believing it. “Brianna, listen to me. I know you’re in there. Listen to me. It’s me, it’s Uncle John.”

The creature in Brianna’s body laughed, not with one laugh but with several. The deep laugh of a man, the crackling of an old woman, the light titter of a child. Chills attacked the length of Grey’s spine like hundreds of mosquitos. 

“She knows it’s you,” the thing said. “She loves you. We can feel it. But she also hates you.”

“Bree, oh Bree. I’m sorry.” John wasn’t entirely sure if he was simply saying it because it was true or if he was saying it in hopes that Brianna could hear him and fight the impossible, awful thing inside her.

“And hate,” it continued. “Hate is the breath of life to us. We consume it like oxygen. Breathe it out like fire.” 

Grey had to think of something. Some way to stop this from happening, to bring Brianna back safely and get out of this alive himself, though the former was vastly more important to him. _Brianna’s coat. The amulet._ It was a fucking long shot, but he remembered what Brianna had said about it, about faith. It seemed silly at the time, impossible, but the impossible was unfolding hideously before him. It was worth a shot.

The garment was out of reach, having dropped it when he’d been slung around by the whip. But if he moved, just a little, slowly, imperceptibly, he could reach it. If only he could distract it, just enough...

“Then, why am I not dead yet?” Grey hissed through his teeth, making a slow move to the left. “If she hates me so much?”

“Love,” said one of the voices. “Stupid love,” said another. “It’s fighting. She’s fighting,” said the child’s voice. “But we can feel it. She is so angry too. So angry.”

He was only a few feet away now, being watched by those empty eyes. He could make a leap for the jacket, if the thing was distracted enough. Or if Brianna managed to fight it hard enough.

“It’s okay,” John said. “If you need to hate me, Bree. If you want to forgive me, then love me, then hate me again and do it all over six times a day. You won’t push me away. No matter—”

Grey lunged for Brianna’s coat. He frantically searched for the pocket and tore the amulet out. He wrapped his hand around it and squeezed. He didn’t believe in such things, but he believed he could do anything for Brianna. Misguided as it had been, he’d left the love of his life for Brianna, tore the beating heart out of his chest for her. He could do this. He could believe.

The creature lunged at him. Brianna’s fierce body hitting him like a cannonball. A rib snapped in his chest. He screamed, gripping the amulet and  _ tried.  _ Those awful voices let out a harmonized cry, then fell back. Brianna writhed on the stone, arching and flailing as if she were on fire. Then, she fell perfectly still. The amulet in John’s hand burned his palm like a hot coal. He dropped it. The thing rattled like a snake.

Brianna, still blood-soaked, pulled herself up to her knees, her eyes clear again. She said nothing, though, as she took a jagged stone from the wall, then slammed that stone against the amulet. Again and again and again. Until it was nothing but dusty, still, shattered stone and bits of gold.

With a pained cry, she slumped onto John and buried her head into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Shh… my dear girl. I’ve got you. It’s okay now. I’ve got you.”

Brianna wept in John's arms until her hot tears soaked his shirt. "I'm so sorry, Uncle John. I'm so sorry. I could see everything, everything I did and I couldn't stop it. I tried, Uncle John! Believe me, I tried." She turned away abruptly, onto her hands and knees, and vomited onto the stone floor. "There were so many of them. And they were so…" she risked a glance to the far side of the chamber and the Nazi's broken corpse and shuddered. "They were so evil." Bree wrapped her arms around her middle, shoulders hunched in. It was the first time in all of this wretched mess that John had seen her frightened for herself.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It’s over now, and I’m—”

The stone wall that had separated them from the others creaked and rose. But not only the one they’d come through. Another. On the other side of the room. Their way forward.

Jamie rushed in and skidded to the floor between Brianna and John. "Christ, are ye alright?" He threw his arms around Bree and crushed her to him in a hard embrace. He reached one hand for John, squeezing his hand tight. "I thought I'd lost ye both," he said, kissing the top of Brianna's hair, Nazi blood and all.

Grey was shaking. He didn’t normally cave, or fall apart, but everything—inside and out—hurt, and here were the two people he loved most in his life, and it wasn’t over yet. He just wanted it to be over. 

“I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m so sorry. Neither of you should be here. It’s all my fault. All my…” he drew in a heavy breath, clinging to Brianna and to Jamie.  _ Just let us go home.  _

Jamie released Grey's hand and wrapped his arm around his shoulders instead, pulling him in close. Jamie held them both, huddled together on the floor. "Nay, John..it isna yer fault. We'll bide. The three of us together, we'll bide."

"Oh, isna this sweet," cooed Geillis. She kicked Jamie's burnt leg and he bit down hard on a shout of pain, refusing to give her the satisfaction and breathing hard through his nose. "There's nay time to be falling to pieces now. Get up. Move."

That was easy for Geillis to say. She wasn’t in excruciating pain. She hadn’t just been trapped in a room and suffocated with the kind of evil Grey could go his whole life and never manage to forget. She was only right in the sense that he had to pull himself together to see the three of them through this nightmare and maybe, if they were lucky, stop these damn Nazis.

Grey pushed himself to his feet, biting back a yelp from his freshly broken rib. He helped Brianna to her feet, then Jamie used the wall to stand as well.

“Come along.” Geillis sauntered past them. “No time like the present. Weel, save the past. Soon enough, that is.”

"Ye are an insufferable wee bitch, anyone ever tell ye that?" Jamie said. The three of them stayed close together as they hobbled along behind Geillis, the coppery reek of blood thick in the air. 

* * *

The pain of Jamie’s burnt leg had mostly dissolved into the background static of generalized misery. The seared flesh was oddly cold and stiff, though, and it gave him an annoying limp. He kept an arm around Bree, though she had mostly recovered from whatever the hell had happened with John in that last chamber. And John had pulled himself together as well. Jamie wanted so badly to touch him, comfort him, but he didn’t think it would be well-received just now. John had let Jamie hold him with Bree, but the chances of that happening again… no. 

The sense of evil wrongness had never really left, but it was impossible to ignore now as the corridor opened up into what sounded like a massive cavern. The lights from their torches didn’t reach far enough to make out the boundaries, but their steps echoed back to them in a distant sort of way. 

Ahead of them, Geillis stretched her arms wide to her sides, head tossed back in a kind of twisted rapture. “Oh, we’re here at last,” she said. “Can ye no’ feel it? Feel the power here?”

Jamie could feel it and he fought the urge to retch as Bree shuddered hard against him. He squeezed her arm with as much reassurance as he could muster.

Randall gave an order in German, and the Nazis fanned out, carrying torches around the cavern in a wide circle. Their light revealed a circle of stones, widely set. There were twelve comprising the circle, all situated around a thirteenth stone in the center. The thirteenth stone was flat and low, cleft down the middle, the top of it bearing a dark patch. Reddish brown, like very old, dried blood. It likely was very old, dried blood. A lot of it. Bree noticed it too and she swallowed hard but kept her composure.

Geillis approached the center stone and touched it reverently, that unsettling, blissful smile on her face. Randall joined her but kept his hands at his sides.

The Nazi goons had taken up positions just inside the twelve outer stones with their torches, and to Jamie’s right, John had his head was on a swivel, analytic eyes taking in everything. Jamie knew that look. John was calculating, reading, taking everything in as raw data and spitting it back out as useful, coherent strategies. He saw the people who built this hellscape, their purpose. Read their words etched into some of the stones. He was formulating a plan.

Jamie arched an inquisitive eyebrow at John.  _ Do you see something useful? _

John’s eyes were calm, almost gleeful. The tiniest hint of a smile—it would have been invisible to almost anyone else in the world—tugged at one corner of his lips.  _ I have a plan,  _ his expression said.

“It’s time,” Geillis said to Randall. He snapped his fingers and gestured at Jamie. 

“No,” Bree said and tried to put herself between Jamie and the two Nazis approaching. 

Jamie turned Brianna around, kissed her cheek. “I love ye,  _ a chiusle. _ Stay with John now.”

John took hold of Brianna’s arm, keeping her in place. He tugged her into his side and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, a quick and almost invisible thing. 

The two Nazis latched painfully onto Jamie and jerked him off balance. Pain from his growing catalog of injuries took his breath away and he went limp. Jamie didn’t stand back up, forcing the Nazis to use all their strength to drag him up to the blood-stained stone. He’d go for Brianna’s sake, but he wouldn’t help them along with it.

“It’s not going to work you stupid bitch!” Brianna snapped. “You can kill my father. You can kill me and John. All your sniveling little Nazi minions. It won’t matter. You’ll never get what you want.”

One of the Nazis shoved Jamie’s face into the cold rock. He could smell the trace of copper blood of the last victim, could see their bones in a dusty heap just steps away. His heart pounded in his ears and all he could think was  _ God, just keep them both safe. _

Geillis commanded the Nazis to wait in German. Then her boots snapped on the stone floor as she approached Brianna with narrowed eyes. “What are ye blathering on about? Spit it out. Or I kill yer Da slow.”

“No. If you kill him or if you kill John, then, I’ll never tell you and it’s all over. Everything you’ve worked for all these years. It’s all over. Everything you told me about. I know you’re not a Nazi, Geillis. Like you said we  _ were  _ friends. Once. I know what you truly want. You just want to find a way back.”

Geillis was always pale, but now she was bloodless. 

“What is she talking about?” Frank Randall strode forward, a rage alight in his eyes.

“Nothing. She’s no’ but a scared, foolish brat.” Geillis flashed her teeth, then snarled, “Slit his throat.”

“Fine.” Brianna turned her attention to Randall. “Let her do it and you’ll never get back either. You can go home and tell your precious führer that you’ve failed. I’m sure he won’t mind. I’ve heard he’s a very forgiving man.” 

“I could torture it out of you,” Randall said. “Or out of your father or his… lover.”

“Or you let my father and John go and I activate the stones. I take you back wherever you want to go. My father and John, they used to tell me stories about you and I remember a particular one, when they’d gotten back from Peru. You’d told John there was nothing he could possess that you could not take away. So, take me. I know more about the stones than anyone else. More than John or my father. More than Geillis. My mother’s been through and before she died, she told me how. So, Frank Randall, the choice is yours.” 

“Bree, what in God’s name are ye doing?” Jamie broke free of the hands holding him to the stone and stood. The goons got him under control again and shoved him back down, the impact rattling his bones. The stone was oddly warm under his throbbing cheekbone. “John, ye canna let her go through wi’ it!”

“This is ridiculous, Bree. You tell me what I need to know and I’ll go with them. You stay with your father.”

“No,” she said firmly. “You missed out on almost twenty years of your life together. I won’t let you miss out on anymore.” Her attention turned to her father, and her eyes softened. “Let me go, Da. I can do this.”

“Yes, alright,” Randall said. “Get them out of here.”

“Ye dinna call the order around here, ye ken? I do.” Geillis spat at Randall’s feet. 

Randall lifted a big hand and cracked her across the face, knocking her flat on the ground. 

“Bastard!” Geillis screamed, blood spurting from her mouth and all over the stone floor.

Jamie wrenched himself free again and whirled around to face Brianna, prepared to tackle the lass himself if it came to it.

John caught Jamie’s eyes and spoke to him, silently. A command he’d given many times over their years together. Fierce eyes wide, a single nod.  _ Fight.  _

There was no thought behind it. Jamie rounded on the nearest Nazi and punched him in the stomach with a hard jab. The man doubled over with a  _ whoosh  _ of expelled air and Jamie caught him in the face hard with his elbow, sending him sprawling backward over the center stone. Fraser pivoted away and to his right, knocked away the gun another Nazi was bringing to bear on him.

Grey reached into his coat. There was a flash of gunmetal. Then the crack of a bullet exploding from the barrel. The Nazi on the stone screeched, clutching at his wounded arm as he slid to the ground, smearing blood on the alter. 

Every torch in the cavern extinguished, flame and electric alike, plunging them into darkness. An oppressive silence settled over the chamber, smothering them like oily fog. A deep rumble crawled through Jamie’s bones. He looked around, searched for any sign of movement, of Bree or John, but it was black as pitch.

Narrow fissures opened along the circle of stones, filling the chamber with a ghastly bile yellow. No, not along them, between the stones, creating a solid, unbroken circle, surrounding them all. The rumbling died away and horrendous shrieking came from the fissure, distant at first but growing rapidly closer. Somewhere far away, Brianna groaned, “Oh God, not again.” Amorphous clouds of vapor flew from the cracks, sickly green, bringing the wails with them. They emerged one by one at first, then scores of them shot from the cracks, screeching and wailing, circling above the stones in a clockwise tornado that whipped Jamie’s hair and clothes.

“You bloody fools!” Geillis’s voice screeched through the ugly cloud. “The stones need a sacrifice.” 

“We have to stop her,” Grey shouted to Jamie. “They can’t go back. I’ve seen what the Nazis are capable of. We have to stop them.”

The chamber erupted into violent chaos. Without hesitation, the uniformed Nazis dropped their useless torches. Some drew pistols, but it was too dark and the swirling clouds of wailing vapor were too thick for the guns to be terribly useful at anything greater than point-blank range. They were still hopelessly outnumbered, but not effectively outgunned for the first time in days. All the pain in Jamie’s body fell into the background noise as he got keyed up for one more fight. He eyed the nearest Nazi and grinned.  _ Aye, I can live with these odds. _

Jamie crossed the distance between himself and the Nazi in a few long strides. The other man drew his pistol and leveled it at him, but Jamie was expecting it. He side stepped, grabbing for the Nazi’s wrist and angling it up so the shot went safely overhead. Jamie grappled with him, managed to get control of the gun, and turned it back on his enemy. He aimed the barrel at the Nazi’s chest and pulled the trigger. The Nazi fell and Jamie kept hold of the gun. 

Another Nazi rushed Jamie, who brought his acquired pistol up and squeezed off two rapid shots an instant before he closed on him. Blood soaked the breast of his uniform and this one fell as well. 

Turning, Jamie caught sight of Bree facing off with Geillis. He thought they might be exchanging words but couldn’t make it out with the banshee wails above and around them. Bree pulled her fist back and punched Geillis with the power of her whole body behind the blow. The punch hit the blond bitch directly in the jaw, Bree’s fist continuing on with positively stunning follow-through. Geillis spun with the force of the blow and crumpled to the stone floor. She didn’t get back up.

Brianna met Jamie’s eyes and they exchanged broad grins, hers pure satisfaction, his joyful pride. Both were erased when Frank-fucking-Randall appeared next to Brianna and backhanded her. Jamie saw red, rage coming on him in a wave. He made it two steps in Randall’s direction before the solid weight of someone bore him to the ground in a tackle. 

Jamie struggled under the man, who suddenly went boneless and limp on top of him. He heaved the corpse off him to see a blood soaked knife in Grey’s hand. As Jamie tried to stand back up, John rushed Randall, that bloody dagger still in his hand. 

Grey collided with Randall and Jamie only had a moment to take in the violent rush of hands and weapons before another Nazi was upon him. This one was unarmed. They wrestled for leverage, Jamie finally landing a kick to the back of the man's knees. It bought him enough time to move behind the Nazi and wrap his strong arm around his throat in a choke hold. The man struggled, kicked at Jamie's knees, tried to pry his arm away. Jamie squeezed tighter and tighter, until his body went limp. Fraser dropped him to the stone floor and looked back to where he'd last seen John close on Randall. 

Bree was struggling bravely against two Nazis who held her restrained. John was headed for trouble. Randall was bloodied and battered, and John was holding his own. But his knife was gone and his face was pale and streaming sweat. 

And to make matters worse, Geillis was stirring. 

Two sets of hands grabbed Jamie and hauled him back. He let out a wordless cry of rage, pulling against them, fighting for all he was worth, managing at last to slip out of their grasp. But the pain of his injuries, the bone-deep weariness, it all came crashing down on him. His body was giving out, and by the look of Grey and Bree, theirs were too.

Geillis climbed to her feet as Jamie watched, spat blood from her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. 

Jamie wanted to run to Bree’s aid, but putting one foot in front of the other was becoming a challenge and all he could manage was a trembling limp. He’d probably be shot as soon as one of the Nazi’s was able to get a gun aimed at him, but it didn’t matter.

The rapid  _ popopopop _ of handgun fire exchanged at close range drew Jamie’s attention toward the chamber entrance. He squinted through the swirling haze. There were more silhouettes now, he thought. A muzzle flash, and one of the figures crumpled.  _ Who in God’s name?  _

“Randall, finish him!” Geillis’ voice cried behind Jamie. “Kill him on the stone!”

One of the new figures approached Jamie, gun held at the ready, coming into the circle in that smooth heel-to-toe gait of a well-trained infantryman. He held his gun braced oddly over his left arm, but no less confident for it.

Von Namtzen spared Jamie a glance. “I am pleased to see you are alive,” the German said over the din. 

Jamie nodded. “Aye. It’s good to see ye.” He was only a little surprised to find that he meant it. 

_ “Fraulein!” _ von Namtzen yelled to Brianna, drawing her attention. “Drop!”

The lass doubled over, wrenching her arm free from one of the Nazis, dragging the other with her. Von Namtzen fired three shots at the one she’d escaped, landing all three. The second held Brianna like a shield in front of his body. She fought and struggled for all she was worth, but she was too tired, and he was too strong. Jamie made his way to her, battered, broken, and unarmed but determined. 

Von Namzten shouted in German, and a man joined him, dressed in plain dark trousers and a white shirt. “We will save your daughter,” von Namzten said. “You help John.”

_ John. _ Randall had gained the upper hand and was bearing down on John. A flash of metal caught Jamie’s eye. The knife. Jamie made a run for it, slid to the ground and scooped it up by the blade. “John! Catch!” he yelled, tossing the knife to John in the same motion.

Grey’s arm snapped out, wrapped his hand around the handle. He plunged the knife into Randall’s neck, his eyes wide. Blood poured down John’s hand. He groaned and rolled Randall over onto his back, splayed across the stone altar. Grey held his struggling form in place. Thick red oozed over stone and the swirling yellow spectral clouds lifted, evaporating like mist.

A buzz echoed in the room, like the deafening sound of thousands upon thousands of bees. Furious, insistent, rising to a crescendo.

“Run!” Bree screamed. “Get out of the circle.” She rushed forward, von Namtzen still grappling with a Nazi behind her. “Da! John! Go now.”

Grey released Randall’s body, dropped the knife. Stumbled back. Blood soaked, John bolted away from the altar. He grabbed Jamie’s hand as he went, yanking him forward. Brianna was a flaming beacon in the distance. They collided into her as they slid out of the stone circle.

“Stephan!” Grey shouted, jerking forward, though Jamie still had a grip on him, pulling him back. “Come on. Hurry!”

Von Namtzen had his one hand around the Nazi’s throat, but the man was still kicking and struggling.

Grey tried to move forward. Jamie did not let him go. 

“Leave him, Stephan!” Grey shouted. Both he and Jamie knew he couldn’t. Couldn’t just let a Nazi, even a grunt, go back in time.

“Geillis, “Jamie said. “We canna let her go—”

“Let her,” Brianna said, raising her voice. “I know how she dies. It’s more justice than we can give her here.”

The German turned to look at John. He dropped the Nazi, limp and blue. Von Namtzen took a step towards them. Then, like the shutter of a camera lens, he was gone. Geillis too. Von Namtzen’s reinforcements. The cavern lay in silence, save for their ragged breathing. Only corpses remained inside the circle. The few people still alive inside the circle had disappeared.

Grey’s knees gave out and he leaned against Jamie for support, clutching at his shirt, the brim of his fedora—somehow still on his head—crushed against Jamie’s chest. “It’s my fault,” John muttered. “He’s gone and I… it’s my fucking fault.”

Jamie hesitated, not sure what to do. Ugly jealousy clawed at him, made him resentful. But John was hurting. And as much as it cost Jamie to admit it, John wasn’t his anymore. He didn’t have the right to be jealous. After a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Grey, embraced him. “I’m so sorry. It’s no’ yer fault, John. Ye did what ye had to do.” 

Grey reached out, pulled Bree into them. “Let’s just go. I can’t stand to be here for another moment. Please.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed. They made their way slowly from the chamber, limping and leaning on each other for support. Jamie kept a hand on John and Bree, afraid that if he let go, they’d be gone.

* * *

By the time they emerged into the forest, the sky was just shifting from starry pitch to a deep coal. As they hobbled their way through the trees, the pain and bone-weariness was an oppressive weight, but the sense of wrongness from the stones faded, ever so slowly, into the distance. They made it as far as the cluster of vehicles, parked haphazardly in the grass. 

“We have a first aid kit in the car, Da,” Brianna said as they reached the clearing. “I can take care of your leg.”

Jamie shook his head. “Nay, lass. It’ll bide. Let’s just…” he sank to the grass, collapsing with his back to a tree. “Let’s just rest a bit.”

Bree eyed him reprovingly, but it was weak and short lived, and she eased herself to the ground next to him. Her bun was completely undone, hair a tangled mess, face smeared with soot and grime and God knew what else. She laid her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “Well, if you insist.” Jamie put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, the smell of her buried under a layer of smoke and metallic blood.

John sat a few feet away. He carved the tip of the knife he’d used to kill Randall into the dirt. His back was to them, his hat askew on his head, whip laid out beside him on the ground like a pet snake. Jamie could see the man breathing, could hear him breathing too. But Grey said nothing, just kept sliding the tip of the blade around in the dirt.

“Thank you.” Brianna’s voice was no more than a gentle whisper. “For finding me and for saving me. I know it wasn’t easy for you to… to get back out there.”

Jamie clutched her tight to him. “Whatever it takes to see ye safe, lass, is the easiest thing in the world. ‘Tis what fathers do for their bairns.” His eyes were on John as he spoke the last sentence. “Though maybe next time, no Nazis, aye?”

Brianna hummed in weak amusement. “It’s a deal.”

Jamie rested his cheek against Bree’s hair. “Ye can sleep now,  _ a chiusle _ . Ye’re safe.”

She might have been out before he’d said the words. Jamie watched Grey for a few painful minutes. “I’m so sorry I brought ye into this, John,” he said at last. “I shouldna have, but… I didna know who else I could count on.” His eyes were burning, but he was too tired to weep, thank God. He’d save it for later, when he and Bree were safely home to Inverness and John was back in Boston. 

At first, Grey didn’t reply. Just continued drawing the blade through the dirt. But then, he sighed, laid the knife down and turned towards Jamie. His arms wrapped around his knees and his face looked warm, but shadowed in the fading moonlight. “Of course you should have. I would have never forgiven you if you didn’t.”

“But it cost ye so much, I ken it did,” Jamie whispered. “I waltzed into yer settled life and dragged ye out of it. I put ye in unforgivable danger. And von Namzten...I’d do anything for Bree, ye ken that. But I wish it hadn’t gone this way.” Jamie took a deep breath and went on. “And when ye go home to Boston, ye have my word that I willna trouble ye again.”

Grey’s eyes shut, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I wish it hadn’t either. Stephan… deserved better than that. And I hope, wherever he is, he’s safe. But, the truth is… I’m still glad for it. It’s wrong. I know that. After everything, but I guess I always was a selfish man. It was worth it. To me. All of it. Just to see you again.” He breathed out a shaky breath. “I understand that. What we had is in the past. That I… that I left to protect you and Bree and… myself, from a broken heart I didn’t think I could survive. But, still, Jamie, I left and I understand that you closed your heart to me. That’s fair, but I just wanted to say that I wish more than anything in the world, that all those years ago, when Claire came back, that I would’ve been brave enough to stay.” 

Jamie had another apology poised, and he let it die on his lips. He blinked across the distance, shook his head as if to dislodge the foggy weariness that weighed him down. “But, no, John, I didna close… What do ye mean, ye wish ye’d stayed? What ye said to me in Venice was true, I ken that. I treated ye badly when Claire came back. I was frightened and confused.” He was frightened and confused now. Jamie was petrified for the time when they’d say good-bye again, maybe of the last time. Confused because of what John had said about being brave enough to stay. “I dinna blame ye for leaving, John. And I’m sorry for all the awful things I said. And I’m more sorry for the things I didna say.” 

Jamie took a deep breath and glanced down at Brianna. He replayed in his mind what she had said to Geillis:  _ “My father loved my mother and he loved John Grey.” _ She knew. How did she know?  _ Of course. John must have told her _ . An instinctive terror gripped Jamie’s heart in an icy vice. 

Yes, she knew. But she was okay with it. It didn’t upset her, didn’t repulse her. She was  _ okay _ with it. 

“The lass was right,” Jamie said at last. “I did love Claire and ye both. And it doesna excuse what happened, but I didna ken what to do, how it could be possible to love ye both.” His words were coming faster now, urgent, afraid that if he didn’t let them out now he’d never have the chance again. “But what did ye mean, John? What did ye mean about staying?”

“Oh, Jamie. I left because I was scared. Scared of the moment you chose her over me. I thought it might kill me... truly. And, then, I knew. I knew that you couldn’t love us both. Claire was Bree’s mother and she needed her mother. So I left. If I could go back, I would’ve stayed, even if we couldn’t have been anything but friends. It was wrong to walk out on you and wrong to walk out on Bree. Back then, I wasn’t strong enough to stay and now… now I don’t think I’m strong enough to walk away. God help me, when you talked about going back to Inverness and leaving me in Boston. I’ll accept it, if that’s what you want. But, if you don’t want me in your life, you’re going to have to be the one to tell me so. Because, if it’s up to me, fuck Boston. I want to go home.” 

Jamie’s vision blurred, a sudden tear making its way down his cheek. He reached out with his free hand, leaning over until he could close his hand around John’s. “I do. I need ye in my life. Please come back to Inverness wi’ us. Wi’ me. Will ye come home to me, John?”

John moved in closer, eyes fixed on Jamie’s. He brought their foreheads together and slid his hand away, so he could cup Jamie’s face. A smile twitched on his lips, tired, relieved. “Yes. God, yes, Jamie.”

For just a moment, Jamie closed his eyes, sent up the most sincere prayer of gratitude in his life, and drew John in for a kiss. It was home. There was no other word for it. It was right and it was real and it was too damn long to get here but here they were. Jamie breathed deep through his nose, inhaling the scent of copper and fire and brimstone from their ordeal, but under it all… John. It could have been twenty years ago or twenty years from now, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that John was kissing him and it wouldn’t be the last time. Not by a long shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! The conclusion posts on Wednesday May 27, 2020!


	10. Chapter 10

**Inverness — 1939**

Since Dr. John Grey had left Inverness almost two decades before, he had not visited the city, nor Scotland at all, despite many travels and adventures across every continent save Antarctica. He expected it would feel strange to be back, to feel the chill dampness on much older skin and to see the lush greens and blues of the moors with far more experienced eyes. And yet, returning to Scotland, to Inverness, simply felt like coming home.

After a night to recover, Brianna drove them in Stephan von Namtzen’s car back to France, where he and Fraser spent several nights at a hospital having their bones set and being plied with penicillin and morphine. Brianna, who had blooming bruises on her face and cuts on her hands, was still well enough to avoid the hospital and took this time in Paris as a holiday. She brought them back trinkets from the Eiffel Tower and regaled them with stories of a Scottish man named Roger Wakefield, whom she met at the  _ Musee d’Orsay _ .

In all their years, John had never seen Jamie excited to board a plane before, but when they boarded in Paris, the man actually looked relieved. He still had to excuse himself to vomit twice during the flight, but now that they were cruising down the streets of Inverness, most of the green had disappeared from his face.

“I never thought to ask,” Grey said, casually. “But have you moved? Since I was last here.”

"Nay, there wasna a need," Jamie answered. "Murtagh stayed wi' us after Claire came back, helped wi' Bree. It was too easy to stay in one place." He chuckled. "After the lass went to university though, Murtagh and I started fixing up the house. There's new wallpaper in the bathrooms now. And the light over the stairs doesna hum anymore."

A warmth filled John’s belly, like a sip of afternoon tea. “God, I’ve missed it there. There hasn’t been a place I’ve lived since that’s felt like home.” 

Sure enough, the driver turned on all the usual streets. Some shops had changed or been renovated over the years, but the neighborhood was still familiar. John felt certain he could find his way from here.

The car pulled up in front of the house, and Jamie paid the man while John stepped out into the grey afternoon. The smell of rain on the old stones filled his senses with a perfect nostalgia.

Brianna strode ahead of them, her long red hair swishing. For a moment, she was a child again, no higher than his belt, skipping down the steps, reciting a nursery rhyme she’d just learned. 

John offered Jamie a nervous smile. “Your godfather doesn’t happen to still live here, does he?” At the time, Murtagh had begrudgingly tolerated Grey’s presence and relationship with Jamie. He could only imagine the awful opinion the old Scot had managed to form of him after Grey left the way he did. 

Before Jamie could answer, the front door swung open to reveal a man with pure white hair and a silver-white beard. “Papa Murtagh!” Brianna said in a joyful greeting. She took the steps two at a time and flew into his arms. 

Murtagh gave her a crushing hug. “Thank God ye’re okay, lass,” he said.

Bree stepped away, and Murtagh looked Jamie up and down with a critical eye, noting the assortment of fading bruises and mending lacerations. “Ye look like steamrolled shite,” he declared, then broke into a smile and embraced Jamie. “I’m glad ye’re both safe.”

Pulling away from Murtagh, Jamie cut his eyes to Grey and gave a little nod to his godfather, bending to whisper into his ear. 

Murtagh followed Jamie’s gaze to Grey, beady eyes narrowing at him, the smile fading from his lips. He came down the front steps toward Grey, stopping just outside of arms’ reach, staring him down. “Sixteen years,” he said quietly. “Sixteen years, and nay a word from ye.” Murtagh took one solid step closer, sized him up. Then everything changed. It started with his eyes, the crows feet deepening, before migrating to his mouth, which stretched into a grin as wide and sincere as he had given Jamie and Bree. “Welcome home, John,” he said with complete sincerity, offering his hand. When Grey took it, Murtagh pulled him into an honest-to-God hug.

Grey shuddered, surprised. Murtagh was not only still here. He was still here and hugging John and happy to have him back.  _ Happy.  _ No. John wasn’t surprised. That wasn’t nearly strong enough of a word. He was shocked. “It’s good to be home,” he said, meaning it as much as he’d ever meant anything.

Murtagh pulled back and straightened up with a cough. Under his grey beard, his lips tipped into a smile. “Well, come on in then,” he said. “Supper’s getting cold.” 

Of all the things that had changed since John had last been at Jamie’s—at  _ their _ —home in Inverness, Murtagh’s cooking was not one of them. They still filled themselves up with haggis and porridge until they felt sleepy with it. When they were done, Brianna went off to call that Roger Wakefield fellow. He lived nearby and they were meeting later this week for what Brianna would not admit was a date, but almost certainly was. They enjoyed a dram of whisky with Murtagh before he too excused himself to his bedroom.

Now that they were alone, for the first time since they’d had their talk in the woods, Grey knocked back another gulp of whisky for courage, then sat down on the sofa beside Jamie. He nudged his knee against Jamie’s, then smiled softly at him. “How are you feeling?”

Jamie returned Grey’s smile and looked down into his own whisky glass. “Like I’ve picked up a favorite book after putting it down for a long time. I keep thinking,  _ yes that’s what this was. This is familiar and right _ .” He turned his blue eyes back to Grey, the smile turned into something warmer than it had been a minute ago, with a dash of mischief. He laid his hand on John’s thigh, just above his knee. “And how do ye fair, Dr. Grey?” 

“Honestly?” John said, feeling the warm effects of the whisky even more now. “I’m mostly thinking about our bedroom… or yours, now, I reckon?” He swallowed. He didn’t want to ruin this, but was it wrong for him to want to kiss Jamie again and more than just kiss him? Lie with him. To have Jamie Fraser inside him again. As he’d dreamed of at least once a week since… “Was that… is it too soon for that? I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I…”

Jamie took Grey’s chin in his hand and interrupted him with an open-mouthed kiss. Their lips brushed when he answered. “It is  _ our _ bedroom.” Another kiss. “And please dinna ever apologize for that again.” And another. “I’ve been dying to take ye to bed since before we got out of that hospital.” Another kiss, and Jamie let it drag over Grey’s bottom lip. “So unless ye have something else ye’d like to second guess, I’d verra much like to take ye upstairs to  _ our _ bed.”

Grey shivered, heat beginning to build between his ribs. “If we weren’t in such awful condition, I’d insist you whisked me into those big arms and carried me up the stairs to have your way with me. But, under the circumstances…” He stood from the sofa, grabbed his fedora off the end table and placed it back on his head. Then, he took Jamie by the hand and tugged the man to his feet. Grey dug teeth into his own bottom lip, looked right into Jamie’s eyes and laid his arms in a wreath around Jamie’s neck. He stepped closer, then leaned up and captured Jamie’s mouth in another kiss. Longer this time, deeper and wetter. Feeling the soft and tender inside of Jamie’s cheek, remembering the ridges of his teeth with a hot tongue.

“You guys could take it to the bedroom, you know?” Brianna said, wistfully, sipping from a bottle of Coke. 

John jumped about ten feet back, and she laughed. 

“You know I support you both, but no one needs to see their parents frenching in the living room before it’s even dark outside.” Brianna laughed again, clearly finding their embarrassment deeply amusing. 

Jamie’s cheeks colored with an endearing shade of red and he made a visible effort to compose himself, to little effect. “Is it no’?” He made a show of squinting out the window and cleared his throat. “Aye weel.” He snatched up John’s hand and made for the stairs. “Lock up, will ye, lass?”

Despite their injuries, they found themselves upstairs and behind closed doors in no time at all. John had his back to the door and pulled Jamie hard into him, an act that smashed his fedora up against the wood. He took it off and tossed it into the room. It landed on the bed. 

“I can feel you,” John said against Jamie’s lips. He bucked his hips into Jamie’s. “I’ve missed it. Feeling how your body wants me.  _ Christ. _ ” Grey kissed him again, throwing his body into it. Sinking his fingers into familiar, wonderful curls.

Jamie hummed into his mouth, yanking him away from the door and tugging Grey’s shirttails out of his trousers. “I never stopped wanting ye,  _ oh God _ .” His hands slid up under John’s shirt, palms warm on his back, blunt fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. 

“Will you fuck me, Jamie?” Grey said, mouth dry. He clung to Jamie, breathing in his smell and just the feeling of him. “It’s what I’ve missed more than anything, just being stretched around you, open for you. God, I need it.  _ Please.” _

“Dear God, yes,” Fraser groaned. Injuries or not, Jamie scooped John up, lifting him with both of his strong hands under Grey’s arse. It was only a few steps to the bed and Jamie dropped him, bouncing onto the mattress. He pounced on top of John, kissing him desperately, like he’d die if he stopped, working the buttons of John’s shirt with his left hand.

Grey attacked Jamie’s shirt with equal ferocity, but he didn’t wait to undo all the buttons before he tore it over the man’s head to reveal hills and valleys of freckled skin, draped handsomely over tight muscles. He  _ loved  _ this. The power of it, the way the mattress sank all around him, the feel of lips and hands on his body. The growl deep in Fraser’s throat when he tore John’s shirt away, buttons skittering across the floor. 

John shifted down just enough that he could wrap his mouth around Jamie’s nipple, feel the tiny bud on his tongue. He suckled softly, then nipped with just enough pressure to make Jamie shudder. He smiled, proud he’d remembered just how to do that.

Jamie gasped and bucked, his cock a hard weight pressed into Grey’s hip. “Christ, John,” he said, going after Grey’s belt and letting out a little triumphant noise when the buckle slid free. “I need to see all of ye.” Jamie caught Grey’s mouth in another burning kiss, moved to the side and sucked his earlobe into his mouth, applying just a little teeth. “I couldna look,” he said, breath hot oon Grey’s ear. “When we were in Paris. Because I couldna stand it that I would have to look and no’ touch ye.” Jamie scooted down Grey’s body, lips and hands marking his path until he came to his open trousers. He stood, dragging them and John’s boxers down, dropping them in a heap on the floor. For a moment, Jamie stared down at him, eyes dark with desire. 

“You could have, you know? Touched me then. I would’ve let you. Would’ve  _ wanted _ you to. For God’s sake, you could have bent me over my desk in Boston and had me. I’m yours. Always.”

“Aye, well, we already established I’m a coward. I didna think to ask at the time.” Almost as an afterthought, Jamie shucked his own pants, crawling back onto the bed. He started at Grey’s knee and kissed his way back up, mouthed over his hips. Only blew his cool breath over John’s prick but did not touch it, the damn tease, flicked his tongue over each of Grey’s nipples. Their lips crashed together again, Jamie’s tongue warm and wet in Grey’s mouth. When they came up for air, Jamie brushed the hair away from Grey’s forehead and smiled down at him.  _ “Tha thu cho alainn,” _ he said.

Grey loved the sound of Gaelic on Jamie’s lips. If he wasn’t already straining and hard, the sound alone would make him that way. “What does that mean?”

“You are so lovely.”

John wanted to say something back to him. Something of equal beauty, but there weren’t words in any language he knew to express how he was feeling. There was just his body and John hoped it would be enough.

He kissed Jamie, then took his hand and brought two fingers to his own mouth. He pressed the large digits between his lips and suckled them, until they were wet and dripping. “Get me ready to take you. It’s been almost a year since I…” Since Stephan, but he wouldn’t say that now. “Have you ever? With anyone since Claire…? Or, um, with another man?” When they were together before, there hadn’t been anyone but John. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Jamie breached him gently with one wet finger. “Once,” he answered. “The year after she…” He eased in the second finger. “But he wasna you, John. No one since.”

“Fuck, Jamie. That feels… I’ve missed you.” Grey breathed out and swallowed. “I’ve been with… lots of men, and I know the feeling. I’ve never even spoken to any of them after, only Stephan but… none of it matters now. This. Us. It’s the only thing that’s ever been real for me. You know that, right? And you don’t have to say the same for me. I know it’s different and I’m okay with it, but you’re the love of my life, Jamie Fraser. There will never be someone else for me. Ever.”

“Aye, different, but no’ less,” Jamie replied, scissoring his fingers just right, just the way he’d done years ago. “God gave me two great loves. And I dinna ken why and I dinna care. I’m a damned fortunate man to love ye and to have ye love me in return.”

“This is probably an odd question, but… I don’t think I can wait much longer to have you inside me. Do you still keep oil in here? I don’t know why you would, but… we probably should’ve thought about that before we came up here.” John groaned, feeling stretched and full. “But— _ fucking Christ, Jamie— _ if you don’t, just do it anyway.  _ Fuck.  _ I need you now.”

Jamie grinned down at Grey and kissed his forehead. “Call me a foolish optimist, but aye.” He slid his fingers free and rolled over toward the bedside table. When Jamie rolled back over he propped his back against the pillows and tossed Grey his fedora, slicking his cock with an oily hand. “Put that back on and climb on,” he said.

Grey smiled and shook his head, but settled the hat back down on his head. “You think I’m sexy like this? This what gets you going?” He poised himself over Jamie’s cock, letting the head barely push against him, before pulling away—just a little—to tease Fraser. “What I should do is get my whip out when this is all over and remind you how to be a good boy. I remember how much you used to like that.”

“Jesus Christ, John,” Jamie said with an actual whimper. His hands closed on Grey’ hips in a firm grip. “I’m counting on it. Now,” he groaned, pushing down on John’s hips just enough to make his intent crystal clear. “Would ye’  _ please  _ stop teasing me before I do something embarrassing?”

Grey gave into him. Because he wanted to. Because he loved the look on Jamie’s face when he did. He still remembered it so well and, even with the changes of age, Jamie still looked the same. God, it happened so easily. This wasn’t something John did often, almost never, but he still accepted Jamie so easily. And it still felt like nothing else ever had. Like having a piece of his soul returned. 

Being with Jamie Fraser, it was  _ wholeness.  _

The gasp that fell from Jamie’s parted lips was bliss and relief and he let his head fall back against the headboard with a muffled knock. His eyes raked over John from top to bottom, smirking at the fedora, to where their bodies joined. “Perfect,” Jamie breathed. “Christ, was it always this perfect? It must have been.”

“It was,” John replied, certainly, rocking himself on Jamie. Letting himself feel every inch of the rise and fall and the rise and fall again. “I don’t know how we ever survived without it. I don’t know how we’re going to make up for sixteen lost years, but God knows I want to try. Oh, Jamie. I love you. I love you so goddamn much.”

“God, John, I love ye too.” Jamie closed his fist around Grey’s cock, matching John’s rhythm. “I never stopped loving ye. Not even a little. Never will.” He moaned, muttered something in Gaelic. The fingers of Jamie’s other hand dug into Grey’s hip.

John braced his hand on the mattress and leaned back. He could feel his cock leaking onto Jamie’s stomach, could feel the rising fire inside him. He never wanted this to be over. Wanted to do this every day for the rest of his life. If he could keep Jamie this deeply inside him forever he would. He would.  _ He would.  _

With a groan, John said, “Harder, Jamie. I need it harder. When it’s over, I need to keep feeling it.  _ Please. _ ” He didn’t know what he was asking for. But he needed Jamie to know. He trusted Jamie to know. 

With only a growl in reply, Jamie took over. He maneuvered John onto his back, knocking the damn fedora askew. Jamie pounded into him, ruthless, relentless. He fell atop Grey, not bothering to hold himself up on his hands save what it took to maintain his angle of attack. His pace was wild and brutal and completely unpredictable and he slammed into John over and over, rattling his bones and sending the mattress into furious squeals of noisy protest. “Come for me, John,” Jamie said, gasping. “Let me see ye fall apart.”

_ Fall apart?  _ John was already in a million pieces, broken apart and shattered like brilliant, luminous fragments of glass. Still, he knew what Jamie meant. Could feel his meaning rising inside him as hot, as molten, as magma. It wouldn’t be long. Not with that perfect pace, not with Jamie’s mouth on his, his taste and touch everywhere, inside and out. Grey was right there. Right on the edge. The friction of Jamie rubbing against him was all he needed to see white—bright as lens flare—and spill all over his chest, up to his neck, Jamie’s name on his lips.

A moment later, Jamie’s rhythm faltered, went erratic. His mouth crashed into Grey’s, swallowing all their moans and muttered words, their gasping breaths echoing in the room. Jamie stilled but didn’t pull out, sweat dripping from his brow, his strong back sticky with it. He dropped his forehead to rest on John’s chest, his breath tickling across his skin. Jamie spoke from this position, voice muffled. “If ye dinna think ye’ll feel that long enough after.” He raised his head again and gave John a smirk. “I’ll do it again in the morning.”

Grey laughed, the movement making Jamie’s seed slip out of him and onto the sheets. He had missed the man’s claim inside him. “Oh, I don’t think so, Fraser. It’s my turn tomorrow. And, if you behave, I’ll open you up with my mouth the way you like.”

“Oh, God,” Jamie groaned and kissed John, slow and drowsy now. When he pulled away he asked, an impish expression on his face, “Behave like what?”

John turned over. He just wanted to look at Jamie’s face. Take in every new line and blemish so he could have the man as perfectly memorized as he once did. “Just hold me tonight. Don’t let me go until morning and… even then.”

They wiggled their way under the sheets, and Jamie wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close. The big Scot hooked one leg around John’s calves too, for good measure. “I’m never letting go of ye again, John Grey. Ye’re stuck wi’ me forever now.”

Grey shut his eyes, feeling rested for the first time in years.  _ Forever.  _ Forever sounded perfect. 

* * *

It was the fifth evening out of eight that Brianna hadn’t been with them for dinner. She’d kissed Jamie, John, and Murtagh on the cheeks, declared they shouldn’t wait up, and dashed out the door. Things seemed to be getting rather serious with that Roger Wakefield chap she’d met in Paris. Grey said as much and Jamie and Murtagh made nearly identical Scottish noises that John interpreted to mean they were well aware and if that boy knew what was good for him he’d make himself known sooner rather than later. Grey agreed with this sentiment, having a few very pointed questions to ask himself

The dinner dishes had been cleared away—Jamie had cooked a simple meal that was blessedly lacking in both haggis and porridge, and the three had retired to the living room for a dram. Murtagh took his usual place near the hearth while Grey reclined against Jamie on the sofa, a novel propped against his bent knee. They read silently together, Jamie looking over his shoulder at the page.

The front door opened and slammed shut and Bree’s voice called from the foyer, urgent excitement bouncing down the hallway to shatter their quiet refuge. “Da! Uncle John? Where are you? I have something to show you.”

Jamie and Grey were on their feet in an instant, whisky glasses and book hastily discarded on the coffee table. “Living room,” Jamie answered, moving to intercept her. “What’s amiss?”

Brianna made a beeline for the dining table and dropped an armful of rolled maps and notes. Her red hair was pinned back in a low bun, her face framed with a pair of stylish victory rolls. Her face was alight with glee. Young Mr. Wakefield followed her, looking slightly less exuberant but his green eyes still shone with some exciting prospect. 

“Do you plan to introduce us to your friend, Brianna?” John asked, eyes flicking to Roger Wakefield, then back to Bree.

Brianna sighed and rolled her eyes. Sometimes she was so like she had been as a child. “Sure. Uncle John, this is my friend Roger Wakefield. Roger, this is my uncle John Grey, my father, Jamie Fraser, and my father’s godfather, Murtagh Fitzgibbons. Now that we’re all acquainted, we have some important news.”

Jamie stood with his hands at his sides, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his thigh. The glower on his face was frankly impressive in its menace. Christ, he might as well have been holding a loaded shotgun. Roger gave him a cautious nod.

Murtagh shot Wakefield a glare beneath bushy eyebrows. “If ye say ye’re engaged, lass, and we didna even get to speak wi’—”

“For Christ’s sake.” Bree’s cheeks burned red. “We are not  _ engaged. _ We think we’ve found something. Something that might be of interest to Da and Uncle John.” She grinned, most of the embarrassed flush having faded away. 

That drew Jamie’s attention away from his nonverbal death threats and back to Bree. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”

Bree shuffled through the maps. “In 1922, you and Uncle John recovered a golden idol from a temple in Peru. But Frank Randall caught up to you and took it,” she explained. Finding the map she wanted, she unrolled it and laid it flat on the table, holding the edges down with her hands. Grey stared down at it, the shape of Australia staring back at him. Bree jabbed her index finger in the Blue Mountains. “Roger and I found it.”

Roger opened the book in his hand to a page he’d held marked with his finger, showing a sketch of the idol. “Aye. And we figured out how to get it back.”


End file.
